Secrets
by CrimPysche
Summary: Sherlock (12) and Mycroft (24) are out in a less-than-satisfactory flat. Mycroft struggles to make enough to survive, but at the coffee shop, he meets a strangely charismatic officer of the Yard. With all the problems going on in Mycroft's life, can Lestrade be the one to make him admit it's okay to care? (Mystrade, formerly The Night and the Thing !)
1. Chapter 1

_(( Hello, everyone! I decided to branch out a bit. This is a Mystrade fic, yes, but I really want this to be a longer one than ten chapters. We'll see how long it will be, but I have really high hopes for it! I really hope you guys like it – and I deal with some rather touchy topics, so I really hope I do them some justice. Either way, thank you all for reading, you're all so beautiful, and leave a comment if you want!))_

Mycroft liked _schedules. _Controlling, organizing, and planning were his first three offspring. If he had it his way, nothing on Earth would be left to chance. Granted, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, Mycroft didn't exactly have a lot of say in that yet. When he was in his teenage years, he had grand aspirations. Even now, he still hoped, but it was reserved and reigned in.

All of his plans had to be set aside, however, as it was 6 AM and Mycroft needed to get Sherlock to school.

They lived in a flat, he and his brother. The circumstances surrounding how they moved in were complex, but painful enough to clash with Mycroft's recent 'no untamed emotions' philosophy.

The flat was small. Not terribly hygienic. There was but one bedroom, and Mycroft had put his younger brother in there in order to give him a sense of privacy. Not that Sherlock particularly _deserved _privacy, given that he was the most troublesome twelve-year-old child in the planet, but Mycroft had felt a deep sense of guilt from wrenching Sherlock out of their home.

That left Mycroft with few options. Most often, he took the sofa. That was remarkably uncomfortable and Mycroft always woke with a sore neck. Pathetically enough, that was the best option Mycroft had found yet. The others were the rocking chair in Sherlock's room and physically sleeping _beside _the adolescent, and Mycroft knew Sherlock would smother him in his sleep.

There was a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small living area, besides. Mycroft regularly checked the kitchen over for mice and bugs – it was fruitless, because it wasn't as if they could afford an exterminator if anything _was _found. He was hoping that everything would hold together, as their furniture was made cheaply. Mycroft had gotten it for a lark, and he quickly understood why. In their short time at the flat, Mycroft had become a plumber, an electrician, an engineer, and an architect – or, at least, his skills had evolved beyond hitting at things with a hammer.

The bathroom was a small source of tension between the two. Mycroft needed it in the morning to make himself look presentable, and Sherlock had a not-so-secret desire to constantly play pirates in the tub. Grudgingly, Mycroft had taken the responsibility of cleaning it. Despite his efforts, the place always had a slightly yellow tinge to it.

Mycroft kept the living room presentable. They had a small telly with which to watch the news ( Sherlock, thank heavens, had never shown particular interest in watching telly), a slightly battered and sunken-in sofa, a lamp, and a rug. Usually Sherlock's experiments were thrown all about, but Mycroft snapped at him often enough to clean them up.

The entire flat seemed a tad grungy, a tad dangerous, and a tad smelly. It wasn't in a particularly nice bit of London, either, so he kept a strict curfew of 7 PM for Sherlock. Whenever it turned dark, Mycroft told him, Sherlock had to be home. The boy was twelve, short, curly-haired, and naïve yet. Mycroft didn't want him to get mixed up in the wrong sorts.

Speaking of his younger brother, Sherlock still had to attend school. Mycroft pried himself from the sofa and slumped his way over to Sherlock's room. "Sherlock, up. School." As he did so, he made sure his face was carefully masked. His neck was twinging with pain.

Sherlock was sprawled out on his bed, taking every conceivable inch for himself. That was another reason why Mycroft didn't just swallow his pride and sleep in the same bed for him. Sighing, Mycroft went over to him and shook his shoulder. "_Up, _Sherlock, I've an interview today and I cannot be late."

Sherlock let out a small whine and mumbled something along the lines of, "You shan't get the job, anyway."

Sherlock was never particularly kind. Hadn't ever been, really. Even now, he held a grudge against Mycroft for not telling him _why _they could no longer live with their parents. Mycroft didn't intend on telling him, and Sherlock was cross over it. Although Sherlock had never been one to stay angry, Mycroft didn't know if this would be different.

"That's a possibility, but I must go there regardless. And _you _have school. _Up." _Mycroft told him again, physically lifting the boy by his shoulders. When they had first moved in, some months ago, Mycroft had been…soft. _Sherlock _enjoyed the word 'fat', but Mycroft just felt he was a bit softer than the ideal specimen. That had nearly disappeared when they had moved in, entirely due to their small income.

Sherlock whined again and slumped against the wall, but he did slowly make his way over to find his clothing. The boy's hair was sticking up in several places and Mycroft licked his fingers in order to pat it down. The whine turned into an outright scoff of disgust. "Mycroft, _stop _it. I don't want your spit in my hair."

"I wouldn't have to if you learned how to operate a comb. It's not that difficult, Sherlock, I assure you." A touch of pride entered Mycroft's voice. "Top of your class, and you cannot even brush your hair. Heaven help us, Sherlock."

At the end of the day, Mycroft didn't hate his brother. He couldn't. In the most cliché way possible, Sherlock was all he had. Even if Sherlock detested him, Mycroft had to care for him, and he felt pride for him, just the way a parent would. It was sickeningly sentimental.

However, that didn't mean Mycroft was the most affectionate stand-in parent about. No, after _the night, _Mycroft had sworn off emotion entirely. He merely looked after Sherlock because it was his fraternal duty to do so. Still, he thought to himself, he would do a damn better job at raising Sherlock than his own parents had accomplished.

As Sherlock began to get himself ready, Mycroft returned to the living room and attempted to make a meager breakfast.

They had been born into wealth and affluence. The Holmes family had two major characteristics about them – one, they were sickeningly rich, and two, they were richly sickened. Every single male member of the Holmes family had some mental disease, from Alzheimer's to psychosis, but they were also rich enough to treat it. Mycroft didn't know if he had escaped the curse on his mind. He had always been frighteningly intelligent, but he in no way regarded that as a mental disease.

Then _the thing _had happened, and then Mycroft and Sherlock were on their own. No money, of course, because that would've been far too easy. So Mycroft had gotten a job waiting on tables at a coffee shop (it seemed so _beneath _him, but hell, he'd be willing to go onto prostitution if that meant being able to feed his brother). He had an internship going for a politician. Of course, he could always get more money if he simply dropped the internship and worked full-time, but Mycroft was hoping he could actually properly get a _job _in the government soon.

However, a government job wasn't a short-term goal. No, short-term was acquiring a better paying job. They were poor. Not starving, not yet, but it was rare that Sherlock got a decent meal. By decent, Mycroft meant home-cooked. Usually Mycroft got bits and pieces of a meal. Nothing proper, and nothing filling. Sherlock ate at school (where Sherlock got the money for that, he didn't know), as Mycroft could deduce. Once a week (and Mycroft made sure it was _absolutely _once a week), Mycroft would bring home some ingredients and attempt cooking.

Sherlock would roll his eyes and gag, of course, but Mycroft didn't grow annoyed with him. No, for Mycroft had unparalleled observation, and he could tell that Sherlock appreciate it. That was why Mycroft made sure that, one night, Sherlock would eat something.

That was where the interviews came in. Mycroft usually had one lined up every few weeks, and every few weeks, his hopes would get up. More money would be a godsend. Sherlock was a growing teenage boy, after all, and their own meagre flat could do with some fixing up.

However, he knew before he went that he would not get the job. Why?

Somebody needed to be there to pick Sherlock up from school. Obviously, the only one that _could _was Mycroft. Their flat was in a bad neighborhood. Mycroft didn't want for Sherlock to be mixed up in all that.

And two…

Sherlock had brought up, multiple times, that perhaps they could go somewhere for help. There were places that gave food to the poor, clothing to the needy, help for the helpless. If they could just admit they needed help, they would get it.

Mycroft felt that he'd rather die than admit that perhaps they needed help, and that they needed it soon. After all, all it took was one cold or even a broken bone for Mycroft's budget to be depleted completely.

So he walked Sherlock home, every day, because Mycroft never wanted to admit there was something wrong with the set-up they had.

"Oh, Sherlock, you look like you've been sleeping under a rock. Haven't I told you to go to bed _on time? _I do not care how easy your classes are, or how you'll always be the top of your class, you need your _sleep." _Mycroft insisted at him, standing up as Sherlock slumped his way out into the living room. The boy's eyes seemed sunken in a tad, and he was swaying on his feet. His clothes hung loosely from his body, and Mycroft realized with a shock that Sherlock must have been losing weight.

How much damn weight did Sherlock have to lose?

Yes, money had been tight lately. Mycroft hadn't always been able to feed him on a daily basis. Sherlock had the most miraculous away of scrounging for things when he grew hungry, which put into question why Mycroft often put food in front of Sherlock rather than in front of himself. At the thought, his stomach gave a depressed grumble. Either way, Mycroft resolved to actually bring something home that night for him to eat. Anything, as long as it was filling.

"I've been busy, Fatcroft." Sherlock responded airily, lazily adjusting his clothes around his body. His bag was thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. Papers were just about to spill out of it, and Mycroft went over to secure them. "Besides, 'm fine."

"I'm positive that you are. As it is, have a nice day at school. If I hear you condescending to your professors again, Sherlock, I _will _get involved." What an empty threat. "I shall be there to walk you home at the usual time."

With that, Sherlock was out the door and out of Mycroft's hands.

Did Mycroft despise this life? Vehemently. He hated not being able to live in a stable, safe flat, he hated not being able to feed himself or his brother, he hated the constant _worrying. _ But his Holmesian pride made it so that he couldn't really do anything to help himself, and he hated that, too.

He had one suit that he only wore to interviews. With his massive loss of weight, none his clothing had fit anymore. _The suit _was an expenditure that Mycroft knew was necessary, but hated anyway. The rest of his clothing was cheaply made. It wasn't like he wore those often, anyway. He wore his uniform to the coffee shop, and it wasn't like he had friends to go out with. Hell, he didn't have friends, period.

Still, he slicked his hair back as fashionably as he was able and brushed the dust off his suit. Really, he thought as he looked in the mirror, he wasn't a bad-looking man. It wasn't like he could afford to pay attention to _that _part of life anymore, though. Sometimes it was a miracle just to get out of bed and get Sherlock off to school, work a shift, pick Sherlock up, help him with his homework, make sure he ate something, perhaps go out for a stroll, and put Sherlock to bed. _Just _to do that, and only twenty-four.

Walking, of course, was the only transportation to get to his interview. Hell, was he ever frightened about walking through his neighborhood with that sort of clothing. But cabs were too expensive and a car was only a pipe dream, so walking it was.

About two hours later, Mycroft was walking out of the office. His face was the usual set composure – Mycroft wouldn't allow for anything else. However, he knew perfectly well that he wouldn't get the job.

Mycroft was a master of observation, and he took a massive enjoyment in the task. So, when he mentioned that he wouldn't be able to work when he was picking his brother up from school, he could _see _his potential employer's face fall. So Mycroft wouldn't be getting the job, then.

It was a damn shame, and Mycroft would be a damn liar if he said that he wasn't disappointed. There was no reason to get unduly upset, though, and besides, he had a job to get to.

A spark of hope twitched in his chest as he thought that, perhaps, he'd get to see _him _today.


	2. Chapter 2

(( Hello, everyone! Sorry this is a tad late, I completely forgot to upload it on this site! :D Hope you enjoy it, and have two for your trouble!))

Mycroft didn't have time for luxuries.

Luxuries, of course, included friends and boyfriends alike, but also hobbies, crafts, and hell, even _going out_. If Mycroft were to _go out, _he would only waste the time thinking that perhaps he could be working. When Sherlock got home, Mycroft had to focus entirely on him. The boy was an old twelve, but Mycroft worried constantly. Mycroft knew that he was teased, he was vulnerable, and he was so _prone _to doing stupid things.

His last proper friend had been about four years ago, in Uni. She was very dear to him, and if Mycroft hadn't been entirely homosexual, he felt as if he would have loved her. Of course, he _did _love her, in the way that friends do. After Uni, they had parted ways. They had kept in contact right up until _the night _ and now Mycroft wondered how she was doing.

The last proper boyfriend had been just a few months ago, but that was entangled in the _thing _and moving out and _that night _and everything that Mycroft wanted to shove away into a nice, neat little box.

Mycroft's mind worked as a filing system. If he needed something, he would just pull it up. It wasn't difficult in the slightest, though not as glamorous as Sherlock's ridiculous Mind Palace. That being said, there were certain boxes that Mycroft had thrown in a corner and never intended to look at it again. _The boyfriend _and _the thing _and _the night _were all in that box, and Mycroft never thought about it.

In that sense, he thought about it every waking moment. It was too much thought, in essence – he already had to worry about his little brother and his life and his job and his future.

He did let himself relax once in a while, though. He didn't _hate _his job as a waiter, no. In fact, he was quite fond of it on occasion. It was one of the things that enabled him to be a top-notch observer. His coworkers were decent, although all terribly dull, and the tips got him through the week. Plus, there was _him. _

Crushes were stupid and idiotic. They were things felt by schoolchildren. They were things that Mycroft _desperately _hoped Sherlock was feeling because, by God, it would be the first normal thing that that child ever went through.

And yet, Mycroft had a crush on a regular.

It was something out of a poorly-written romance novel, but there it was. The man would sit at a table, alone, and order the same thing every day. A black coffee with a pastry. Never sugar, never milk. Occasionally he would be wearing a Yarder jacket, or occasionally he would have a spot of shaving cream just behind his ear. That told Mycroft that the man was a police officer and lived alone, which gave Mycroft a bit of senseless hope. After all, he told himself desperately, if he did have someone, wouldn't he bring her along one day?

Even if he was single, there was no guarantee that the regular was gay. Then again, there was no guarantee that the regular was straight, either. Or something in-between.

Mycroft didn't know why he hoped such fanciful things. It wasn't as if he'd ever do anything so brash as to sweep up to the man, introduce himself, and ask for his number. God, no. Mycroft wasn't shy in the slightest, but he also didn't need anyone. His life was hectic and overwhelming enough, and he had more baggage than any traveler. He didn't need to put the lovely Yarder through that, but by _God, _was he handsome.

His name was Gregory. Gregory Lestrade, if memory served correctly. That was the name in the Yarder's mobile, regardless. On one rapturous day he had left his mobile on the table and Mycroft had ran out in the rain to deliver it back. With Mycroft absolutely drenched, Lestrade had given him the _warmest _smile and had let Mycroft come under his umbrella. He thanked him profusely, gave his elbow a squeeze, and then walked him back inside.

It was such a small action, in honesty. However, that one small squeeze on his elbow – the large fingers grasping the cloth of his uniform, feeling the warmth through his skin, and the brilliant _closeness _of it all – completely shut down his mind process. He could only stare at Lestrade like a fish before the man began leading him back inside the shop. God, Lestrade probably thought him an idiot.

That was funny, really, because Mycroft fancied himself the most brilliant man in London.

Granted, a brilliant man who acted like a slightly average one in front of a man he fancied.

It was a difficult situation and, not for the first time, Mycroft wished he was just living a normal life. Then, he could just stroll up to the man, strike up a conversation, and things would go easily. However, Mycroft reasoned, _all _relationships ended in heartbreak – even if he had a 'normal' life, who said this would be any different?

He laid his head on his arms and groaned. There'd been a quick change in the back-room into his uniform, and then he had started to prepare the shop for opening. As always, a few people came in exactly as it opened. Mycroft, if nothing else, knew how to deal with people. Polite and courteous was always fine, yes, but on occasion, flattery was ideal. Sometimes, Mycroft spoke as little as possible and left the person well enough alone. It all depended on the customer.

He contented himself with human psychology for a few hours, but he couldn't fool himself. His neck kept craning in the most obnoxious fashion towards the front door. Lestrade didn't miss a day of getting coffee, and Mycroft would always volunteer to service him.

It was the most pathetic thing, really. Mycroft knew he'd never, _ever _ask him out. It wouldn't happen. Perhaps he was good-looking enough, and intelligent enough, but Sherlock had told him that he had a personality like ditchwater. Besides, as Mycroft thought before, he certainly didn't have the time to do anything so rash. And, God, what if Lestrade turned out to be a bad man after all?

There he was.

Mycroft let out the most feminine sigh.

His colleagues didn't understand his living situation, how poor he was, or even that he had a brother. They merely saw a lovesick, asocial idiot. As such, they tried to shove Mycroft towards Lestrade as much as they could without causing a scene.

"Ah- hello. The usual, Lestrade?" Mycroft asked him with a slightly terrified smile. Lestrade had the strangest _way _about him, and Mycroft supposed that was what drew him towards him. When he smiled, they could have been the only two in the room. He looked into Mycroft's eyes as he talked, and he leaned ever so slightly towards Mycroft, and _hell. _

"That'd be fantastic. And I've seen you dozens of times, you can just call me Greg." Deep brown eyes looked up at him and gave him another one of his smiles. To hell with it all, Mycroft thought irritably – he was a twenty-four year old man, he _should _have been being reckless and foolhardy. And at the end of the day, wasn't it sad that he thought just _asking a man out _was being reckless and foolhardy?

"I'm afraid they'll get quite irate at me for that. Familiarity, you know. Though…I imagine _Gregory _shan't go amiss." Mycroft quipped at him, staying at his table for a few seconds longer than necessary. He tried to match his smile, but it was impossible. At his core, Mycroft was a politician – true emotion was a tad foreign to him. Expressing it was even harder.

"Gregory it is, then. I fancy this place, honestly. Gives me a good start to my day." Greg answered back, and Mycroft realized that they were having a conversation. That immediately put all sorts of pressures on Mycroft that he didn't initially realize. His work was not a place to make friends and allies. His work was just a way to make money. He didn't _socialize. _

"Really? I understand that you work in the NSY, but what do you do?"

A gentle, if a bit confused, smile from Greg's side. "Just a bobby. Foot patrols, you know. How did you know I work there?"

"Easy enough to witness from your jacket, Gregory. And I daresay that I could have guessed your foot patrols by the bearing on your shoes, but I didn't want to seem presumptuous in front of a customer." Mycroft rattled off, feeling massively pleased with himself. When he had been younger and had shown a gift for observation, he was…well, teased or ignored for it. So he hadn't wanted to show it off. Now, though? He _wanted _Lestrade to be impressed with him.

"I'll be damned." Greg reported cheerfully. There was a few minutes of awkward silence, before Greg cleared his throat. "Um, sorry. Coffee and a pastry?"

"Right! Yes, of course – apologies." Mycroft stuttered out and disappeared behind the counter. God, how could one man (who just knew his _name!) _reduce him to a little pile of goo? It was so unlike him. While Mycroft's heart was fluttering, though, he knew there was a massive amount of danger. Consort with this man too much and Mycroft might be tempted to ask him out, and then it would be all over.

The best case scenario was if Lestrade turned out to be a wonderful man, and offered to _help. _Mycroft wouldn't accept help. From anyone. That philosophy stemmed entirely from _the night, _but Mycroft was determined to hold it. The worst case scenario was if Lestrade called the police.

Technically, he wasn't the legal guardian of Sherlock. He had a feeling Sherlock knew this, but Sherlock never brought it up. _That _made Mycroft guilty, but he tried not to think about it.

"Er, coffee and a pastry to table four. If you wouldn't mind taking it over?" Mycroft murmured to his nearest coworker, who shook her head vehemently.

"Sorry, Mycroft, I'm working kitchen."

Damn.

It took him a little longer than usual to prepare the meal, and he took a deep breath. Polite and professional. No excess conversation, and soon, Lestrade would just be a memory. Mycroft supposed that it was only to be expected – he hadn't properly _fancied _someone in ages.

"Thanks, Mycroft." Lestrade told him fondly, before taking a glance around the coffee-shop. Lestrade was one of the few people there, and certainly the only one in Mycroft's section. "You know, you serve me my coffee every day, and I've never had a proper conversation with you. Would your manager be upset if you took a little sit-down? I don't have to be at work for a good while-"

"_Yes!" _Mycroft squeaked, backing away. He had known what Lestrade was going to offer before he offered, and Mycroft's heart simultaneously flinched and jumped. "I can't- he would be _very _- _ah!" _Before he managed to escape the area, he had tripped over a chair. He fell down and sat there, dazed, for a few seconds. The next thing Mycroft was aware of was Lestrade on his knees next to him, putting one hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. You okay?" Lestrade asked him, the smile gone from his face. One hand was on Mycroft's shoulder. It was a pleasant, warm weight.

Mycroft stared at him for a few seconds before nearly jumping up. With the most pomposity he could, he brushed himself off and strode back into the kitchen. As soon as he was out of Lestrade's eyesight, however, he took a deep breath and pushed his hands through his hair.

He could think of a few biological reasons for his reaction. After all, he was put under so much damn stress. His _job, money, _his _future, _and most importantly, _Sherlock. _That would have made him desperate for a sense of release, a relaxing time, and his subconscious sought that out in Lestrade. Besides, he was a normal twenty-four year old who had sexual urges and unexplained emotions, despite his attempts to stifle them.

As soon as he calmed himself down, his manager came out and gave him a mild tongue-lashing for knocking over a chair and acting like a fool in front of a customer. Mycroft took it complacently, staring down at his shoes and stuffing his hands in his pockets. If he did anything else, his manager would likely fire him. And, God, what would Mycroft do then?

When he had first moved out with Sherlock, Mycroft hadn't had a job. It was really a miracle that he had managed this one. Back then, though, he was desperate. Begging would be…_unthinkable. _Not to mention that he would get arrested so easily. He had grudgingly thought about prostitution. It would be a horrible blow to his pride, but _hell, _if it meant his brother living –

Thank God he had gotten a job before he figured out whether he'd go through with it or not.

Still, Mycroft walked on egg-shells at his job. Customers often complimented him on his politeness, and he worked with speed and accuracy. This was, in essence, the only error he had made. Yet another reason to stay away from Gregory Lestrade.

Even as he made the decision to stay away from him, Mycroft's mind was also going in an entirely different direction.

He was a foot officer, was he? That meant, if Mycroft found out his schedule, he could 'accidentally' bump into him and start a conversation. Perhaps even acquire his mobile number. Perhaps even ask him out somewhere. Perhaps even-

_No. Nonononono. _

Lestrade would have to be avoided.

Hell, he probably thought Mycroft an idiot, anyway, for behaving so stupidly. Mycroft let out a large sigh once his manager had vacated, and he went out to the front to continue working.

Lestrade was no longer there, and some money was on the table.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the day passed without incident. The tips weren't fantastic, but Mycroft pocketed them anyway and tried to think of where he could get a proper meal. One where Sherlock could get some proper meat on his bones. As well with that, Mycroft pocketed a few pastries before he changed into his interview suit, the only piece of clothing he had on him. The theft wasn't exactly allowed, but Mycroft was confident enough in his abilities to not get caught.

When he and Sherlock had first moved out, thievery was also an option. Mycroft wasn't the leanest of boys when they were first on their own, however, so he decided against it. It had been difficult for him to tread quietly. Now that he had slimmed down, it was an option, but Mycroft didn't want to provide a bad example for Sherlock. There was always something stopping him.

Mycroft waited outside of the school with his hands in his pockets. He felt pleasantly _formal _among everyone else there. People regarded him as something important. Granted, when he was living with his family, they regarded him as something important, too.

The children began to pile out. Sherlock was a genius at twelve, but Mycroft urged him not to show off too much. After all, what would the officials say if they visited his home and found that, not only were no parents present, he was living just a tad better than the homeless? Sherlock didn't particularly listen to him, regardless – he was vain, obnoxious, and disrespectful.

There was the little devil. Sherlock saw Mycroft and cockily sauntered over towards him. Mycroft never saw him walk out with anyone. That was a worrying thought, though certainly the least of his problems. As long as Sherlock was alive, Mycroft could worry about his friends (or lack thereof) later. When they met up, he immediately took his hand – only to have Sherlock yank it out of his grip again.

"Very well, but when we return to our neighborhood, you are to stand _next to me. _Do you understand?" Mycroft hissed between his teeth, turning about and walking. Thank God they lived in London. The fact that they didn't have a car wouldn't be seen as suspicious.

The fact that Mycroft had a _mobile phone _was a godsend. Of course, the bill was difficult to pay every month, but Mycroft needed it. After all, someday, someone might hire him. Once in a while he wouldn't have enough, and then his service would get disconnected, and then he would pay it the next month. It was tentative, but Mycroft didn't know what he'd do without it.

"You had fourteen customers today." Sherlock chirped cheerfully, walking alongside him. "They ordered mostly coffee, with a few pastries mixed in. And you fell on your bum. And you got lectured at for it. How much in tips did you get?"

Mycroft couldn't help it. His mouth quirked to the side. It was refreshingly pleasant to know someone who had an actual brain, after dealing with people who, frankly, didn't. "I'll tell you, if you tell me how you arrived at those conclusions."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Every time you write a customer's order down, you get a dab of ink on your wrist. There's fourteen marks there. Your work only _serves _coffee and pastries, and you've got a few coffee stains on your fingers. You're walking funny, like your bum hurts, and whenever you get yelled at, you scuff your shoes together. It leaves marks. Did I get it?"

God, so earnest for praise, so eager for attention! Mycroft grinned down at him despite himself, and continued to walk. "Correct on all accounts, Sherlock, except you neglected to include the customers for whom I _didn't _write down orders. There are a good number of regulars, actually. Regardless, good work."

Sherlock positively _beamed _at him.

That was something their father or mother had never done. Not a single compliment, word of congratulation, even one of _love. _Father had been indifferent towards both of his children, while Mummy seemed to prefer Mycroft as a son. Towards Sherlock, she simply didn't care. That was why he made a point to pay attention to Sherlock. Indeed, he felt as if he knew more about Sherlock than most parents knew about their own children. Even then, Mycroft was not necessarily _open _and _emotional, _but he _cared._

"How much did you make?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"Not the business of children, Sherlock." Mycroft mused languidly at him. Occasionally, if he had done extraordinarily well, he would share it with Sherlock. This was not such a day. Sherlock scowled and scuffed his shoes on the ground, and muttered something along the lines of 'Fatcroft', but otherwise said nothing.

When they reached their neighborhood, Mycroft took Sherlock's hand again. Sherlock was still a short child (puberty, thank God, hadn't hit him yet), and Mycroft didn't want to think about how vulnerable he looked. Sherlock may have been an extraordinarily brave child, but he knew better than to let go of Mycroft's hand.

It was only when they returned to their flat that Sherlock spoke again: "How's Lestrade?"

Mycroft's head turned around so fast that he heard something snap. "_How do you know about-" _

"You took me to your work once." Sherlock commented, collapsing onto the sofa. Mycroft tutted as he put his feet up on it, but Sherlock didn't remove them until Mycroft physically did. "There was a customer there. Lestrade, he said. And you blushed really bad when you talked to him. It was funny."

"How long ago was that?" Mycroft asked weakly, disappearing into the kitchen. They still had a few bags of tea somewhere.

"Two weeks!" Sherlock called from his spot. He dissolved into childish giggles for a few seconds before responding. "You _never _like people. What's special about Lestrade?"

What, indeed, was special about Lestrade?

He was handsome, of course. But from how Mycroft had heard him talk, he was also intelligent, caring, loving, and _sweet. _He was also the most _good _man Greg had ever met. Mycroft had seen him chat with the other customers, chat with the other staff. Greg cared about everyone. It made Mycroft's heart (and other various organs) flutter. However, he didn't want to appear weak in front of his brother.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Sherlock. Now, come drink your tea. I'll need to go out and get dinner. Stay inside the flat and do your homework while I leave. If you need help with your English, I'll be home later to do so." Mycroft commented airily. He had went to go change into more casual clothing. It didn't look _poor _– Mycroft detested looking so in the Tesco, as rarely as he went there. There was cheaper (and less healthy) food to be had in other places.

"What're you getting?"

"I'm not particularly sure. We'll see when I get there, yes?"

"Can I come with you?"

That was a very real question. Mycroft _hated _leaving Sherlock alone. There had been so many break-ins lately, and although they didn't really have anything to steal…there was Sherlock. His only treasure, to put it as a cliché. But taking Sherlock along would mean, on the return trip, walking with his little brother _at night. _

No, Sherlock wouldn't go along.

Mycroft had never been much bothered by the various criminals in the neighborhood. They were calls, of course, faint threats hidden under the disguise of a friendly greeting. Nobody had ever gone after him, perhaps because they realized that they had just as much money as he did. But with _Sherlock _around, Mycroft didn't want to rely on guesswork.

"You have homework, Sherlock. I will return home as soon as I can." Mycroft promised him, shrugging on his coat and stuffing his tips into his pocket. Probably not the best idea to go spending all of his money in one place, but damn it, Sherlock needed something to eat. The boy was looking thin. Mycroft thought about questioning him on whether he had been eating at school.

And so he left. They weren't the sort to kiss each other on the cheek or even give formal 'goodbyes'. He walked through the neighborhood and thought about what to buy Sherlock. Something with grains, something filling, something heavy. Pasta would be ideal, but Mycroft knew he'd go to whatever was cheapest. They had some money in a box under the bed, but that was for the rent and the mobile bill and God knew what else. A bank account would also be good, but as their money was stretched to a day-to-day basis, he needed it on hand constantly.

Tesco was almost deserted. That was fantastic, really. Mycroft could browse and sort as much as he pleased, trying to find the much food for as little as he could find. He always aimed to get some sort of fruit or vegetable – despite how they were more expensive than the other goods; this was the one night Mycroft actually cooked at home. Sherlock deserved a little something.

Lestrade entered his mind once more as he went up and down the aisles. Perhaps Lestrade would shop there. After all, Lestrade _needed _to go out to the Tesco once in a while, didn't he? Why not this one? It was near to the coffee shop, and Mycroft thought that perhaps Lestrade lived near. And just at once, Mycroft was lost in a daydream where he _saw _Lestrade, and he accidentally bumped into him. They would smile at one another, comment from where they knew one another, they would shop together, Lestrade would invite him out for a coffee sometime, or perhaps even back to his flat, where they would-

God, he'd been wandering around Tesco for two hours.

He already had a good assortment in his cart – spaghetti, Italian bread, sauce, tossed salad, and some oatmeal for the morning. Mycroft had passed the wine and had stared at it longingly, but he figured that would go under the category of 'unnecessary luxury'.

It took nearly all of his money, but Mycroft was happy. When they had been living with their parents, Sherlock had often refused to eat as an act of childish rebellion. Now? Sherlock seemed to devour everything and want more. Mycroft chalked it up to his upcoming puberty. As he passed the milk, he decided to throw a bit in.

Milk had proven to be extraordinarily useful. It was a drink, of course, so Sherlock wouldn't get dehydrated, but it was also extraordinarily filling. Whenever Sherlock didn't have anything to eat, he'd go through milk like mad. Mycroft couldn't complain.

They all fit in two bags, and Mycroft shifted them to one hand. It was going to be a good night. He'd make dinner, Sherlock would be grateful, and he wouldn't have to think any more about how he had made a fool of himself in front of that damned Lestrade.

It was night when he entered his neighborhood. Mycroft shivered underneath his coat.

He saw a few men down the street.

With the milk thrown in, he had exactly a pound and twenty pence on him. Not exactly British royalty, but these men were desperate. And, at that hour, likely drunk. Damn it. Mycroft should have gone as soon as Sherlock had gotten home from school, or had gotten up early to go. Walking through their neighborhood was like this wasn't safe. He fumbled for his keys in his pocket with his free hand. They jingled comfortably.

"Hey there, _Mikey." _

Oh, God.

Mycroft froze where he was, and his spine straightened entirely. He had been born rich, ignored, and self-indulgent – he didn't know a touch of self-defense. He had never had any reason to learn. Not to mention that he was holding a bag of food in his hand, and he would be damned if he let that go. God damn it all.

_Mikey, _in itself, had bad memories. There were the troubling ones of secondary school, where his schoolmates would yell it at him despite Mycroft's protests that he detested it. Then ,of course, the _boyfriend _had called him it, and that brought far too many memories back. He was, quite literally, stunned.

He knew the voice, too.

Back when they had first moved in, when Mycroft had been reeling from _the night _and eager to talk to someone about it, he had gone around to meet the neighbors. He realized now what a stupid idea that was. Either way, _that _voice was the first neighbor he had greeted. A drunkard who sold drugs on the side. He didn't even live there, but most of his business was in that neighborhood.

Mycroft didn't reply, but kept going.

"What do you got there, Mikey?" The man sidled up next to Mycroft and suddenly Mycroft caught a glimpse of him. Unshaven, yellow teeth, horrible breath. He shivered despite himself. "Aw, now, don't be like that. Just being a good neighbor."

Mycroft turned to tell him off, but then he saw what was sticking out of the man's pocket. A gun. His face went pale and he took a step back. Everything limb trembled.

"You shouldn't come out here at night." The drunkard took a step forward, and Mycroft took a step back. His intention was obvious – he was trying to walk Mycroft backward into an alley. "Got the shopping, did you? Where's the squirrely little kid you tote around?"

_Nononononono_-

"Probably got a good bit of cash on you, I bet."

_NONONONONONONO-_

"I'd ask for you to lose the bags peacefully, but look at that death grip you have. Try not to wriggle too much, eh? Wouldn't want your little tyke to wonder where you've gone."

**_NONONONONONONONO-_**

Suddenly, six men were there. They all looked like addicts, and Mycroft took a step back. His hand seemed melded to the bag. Otherwise, he would have dropped it immediately.

_Oh, God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die, and Sherlock won't know, and Sherlock'll go to some cursed orphanage, and he won't be able to survive there, he can't, he shan't. _

"No, please." Mycroft begged, taking another step back. His back hit brick wall. He could feel his breath catch in his throat as he saw the weapons they carried – a few guns, a few knives, and one was brandishing a pipe. "Please, I…I just need to get home. I've _nothing, _I've _nothing!" _

That was when the first hit happened. A pipe to the knees.


	4. Chapter 4

The blows were harsh. Fists and pipe blows alike rained upon him and they both had a surprising amount of force. He could tell they were all mad drunk – their blows were off. Punches meant for his head landed somewhere against his chest. Once he was down on his face, though, they settled for kicks. Mycroft curled up into a ball in desperation. Logically, he knew he shouldn't fight back – they might kill him. Then again, who knew? They might just kill him anyway.

He'd not been beat up before. His Father had enrolled him in a prestigious private school, from which he had graduated from at the top of his class. The assaults there were fully mental, and although he knew people teased him, it was mainly behind his back. The way Mycroft preferred.

Sherlock didn't have such luck. Mycroft did worry for him at his public school, for a few reasons. One, it had taken a hell of a lot of lying and document forging to get Sherlock _in, _and two, the school seemed so much…rougher. But Mycroft had seen Sherlock's torso before, and the boy had no bruises. Mycroft imagined Sherlock got teased – he couldn't rein in his ego. To Mycroft's frustration, Sherlock rebuked him whenever he tried to talk to him about it.

Oh, _hell, _that _hurt. _He coughed out and let his head fall against the pavement. Tainted air filled his nostrils. God, what if he _died _here? Sherlock would wait up for him, as he always did, and then he'd worry, and he'd stay home from school, and wait for his brother who wouldn't come home-

That couldn't happen. However, Mycroft could barely stand, much less fight off six attackers.

"Oi, you lot!" There was a voice calling from the edge of the alley, and Mycroft's heart stopped. "What've you got there? This is the _Yard, _now, you know you can't ignore me."

It was Lestrade.

It was Lestrade, and Lestrade had come to help him, and by God, Mycroft really _had _died.

There was one last injury – one of the attacker's knives were shoved into his arm, and Mycroft cried out in pain. Lestrade's voice sounded again, but this time, more worried.

"_Hands up! All of you, I'm warning you!" _

The drunkards looked up with bloodshot eyes towards the copper, and drunkenly stumbled away from Mycroft. Mycroft turned his head to the side in order to see Lestrade holding a gun and pointing it at the group. He sighed in relief and reached to tug the knife out of his arm. That caused a whimper, because Mycroft was determined not to let his voice be heard again.

He heard Lestrade call for a patrol car and told the men to wait by the curbs. As he kept them all in line, Mycroft crawled to the nearest alcove and shoved himself in. If someone were to look directly at him, they would see an injured, bleeding, and _no_not_crying_don'tberidiculous man. However, it was the best hiding place Mycroft could fashion.

Why did he hide? Simple enough. Lestrade would take him to the hospital, and they would ask all sorts of nasty questions there. Besides, that would take ages, and Sherlock needed him _now. _They had a first-aid kit at the flat. It was one of their few belongings he had scrounged from their old home before they had left. He could patch himself up, head to work tomorrow, and everything would be fine.

Of course, in any normal circumstance, Mycroft's mind would have raised a thousand objections to that. It wouldn't go that simply. Mycroft's mind was quite bruised and battered, so he was pleasantly surprised that he had made any plan at all.

"Jesus Christ, is this a-" Lestrade's boots sounded by the knife, and Mycroft knew his blood must have been all over the damn thing. "Hello! Is anyone there? Come on, I know someone's there!" He shouted out, pacing up and down the alley. Lestrade seemed to be thinking intensely. A good few minutes passed before his boots stopped entirely, and then a hesitating voice called out. "Mycroft?"

_Oh hell. _

_Ohhellohhell. _

Mycroft shoved himself further into the alcove in an attempt to remain hidden. Thank God that Lestrade wasn't the most intelligent of men – or, perhaps, he was just tired.

One of the drunkards angered the other and they started to get into a rather pathetic fist fight. Lestrade let out a groan and turned around to run back to the curb. By that time, a few patrol cars had shown up, and Lestrade was busily helping the drunkards back into the car. Mycroft took the opportunity to painfully stand up, and go the back way towards their flat.

oOo

"What the hell _happened _to you!?" Sherlock demanded as Mycroft slumped his way in. There was no shopping, of course – during the scuffle, Mycroft didn't know where it had gone. He wasn't really in the mood to find it again, either.

"Language." It was the most moronic thing to say and Mycroft winced as soon as he said it, but he shook his head regardless. "Sherlock, go to your room. I'll be able to take care of all of this." At Sherlock's skepticism, Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock, I _promise. _Go _sleep." _

"No."

"_Sherlock." _

"No. You got mugged, didn't you? I want to help." Sherlock told him, pressing both hands against his hips and drawing up to his full height. If Mycroft wasn't in a good amount of pain, he would have been touched by such a gesture. As it was, he was quite fighting off the urge to crawl up in a ball and die. Or head back out there and beg Lestrade to take him to the hospital. No matter that they couldn't afford it.

"Very well. The first-aid kit, if you would." The wound on his arm made him hiss, and he knew he couldn't sew it up himself. So he'd have to get Sherlock to do it. The rest of his injuries, Mycroft was certain, could single-handedly be patched up.

All the while, Mycroft tried to keep his brain activity to a minimum. Already thoughts and memories were pouring in, and Mycroft was trying _very hard _to keep calm. Sherlock returned quickly, and Mycroft thrust his arm out at him. "I'm going to teach you how to sew up an injury. It shan't be difficult, but…I would be most obliged."

"This was done with a knife."

"Very good, Sherlock." Mycroft mumbled under his breath, shaking his head. "Your deductionary skills are exemplary, as always. However, I must ask you to _sew up my bleeding arm. _You know as well as I do, I imagine, why I cannot get it professionally done." At Sherlock's hurt face, Mycroft paused and flinched. "Please."

It took a good half-hour, during which Mycroft began to feel vaguely dizzy, but Sherlock managed an awkward row of stitches up and down his arm. Once that was done, Mycroft sighed – he still hurt everywhere and he could almost _feel _the bruises blooming on him, but Sherlock had done all that he can do. Mycroft raised his good arm and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder. "You have questions, yet. Ask."

"Who?'

"I cannot say. Our neighbors, for certain."

"Why?"

"I imagine they thought I had some money on me. As it happens, I have a pound and twenty pence."

"Why didn't you call help?"

"Someone arrived and arrested them. If he found me, he'd take me to the hospital."

Sherlock wriggled uncomfortably in his seat, and Mycroft mirrored his emotion. _Mycroft, _Lestrade had shouted. As if he'd recognized the shout that he had made. And then he remembered – back at the coffee shop, earlier in the day, when he had fallen so embarrassingly. He had let out a yelp, not unlike the one he had uttered before. Oh, God, that was how.

Mycroft would just have to deny it. He would have to say that his own injuries were an accident somewhere, and perhaps Lestrade would believe him.

But he felt something else brewing in him, something darker, and he knew he needed Sherlock to go to bed. A hand was placed on the boy's shoulder and he gave him a small smile. "Sleep, Sherlock. I'll be fine, and I'll be sleeping in a few moments. Yes?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but did nod complacently. He stood up on unsteady feet, and slowly walked his way back towards his room.

As soon as he did, Mycroft slid off the sofa to sit on the floor. His breath was coming in quick, tight pants, and he hugged his knees up to his chest. The action caused him a massive amount of pain, and Mycroft let out a small whine as he fell to his side.

He prided himself on having a massively advanced intellect, able to control all of his emotions and put things in a logical perspective.

However, right now? Mycroft Holmes was having a panic attack.

It had to do with _the night _and _the thing _and _the boyfriend, _everything of which Sherlock did not know. But _this, _being made so fragile, so helpless, so terrified, brought so many memories back. So Mycroft just lay on his side and struggled to acquire his breath. His consciousness faded a few times, but he was always shoved back into terrifying reality. He wasn't even aware that he was crying, either, as it happened entirely without his permission. His chest felt like it was constricting on himself, his head hurt, it felt like something was putting him in a _vice. _He couldn't feel his hands, but they clawed uselessly at his trouser legs. And _everywhere, everywhere, _was hot.

It went on too long.

And then Mycroft breathed out.

It wasn't the first, no. And, of course, Sherlock had never seen anything. Mycroft wouldn't allow him.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft forced himself to sit with his back against the sofa. One of his knees was swollen and purple, and Mycroft wasn't exactly keen on working tomorrow with it. He was so damn close to calling off, calling ill, but he _couldn't. _One, they had exactly zero money and no dinner, and two, he didn't need to give his manager a reason to fire him. To hell with it all.

God, it just wasn't _fair. _

He was _twenty-four. _

He sobbed into his knees without shame for a few minutes before he became aware that he had a visitor. There was Sherlock, standing at the doorway. His hand was on the door-frame, he was in his pajamas, and they held eye contact.

"Mycroft-" Sherlock spoke, his voice hesitant and shuddering.

Mycroft interrupted him.

"I told you to go to _bed, _you horrid little child!" Mycroft spluttered out, immediately trying to wipe his eyes. Sherlock hadn't witnessed his attack. Of that, Mycroft was sure, but now Sherlock could see him _crying. _"For _fuck's _sake, Sherlock!"

Mycroft tried not to swear in front of Sherlock. Honestly, he did. But now, Mycroft was in pain and angry that Sherlock had seen and frightened for the future. The closest thing to take it out on was Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him, open-mouthed, before retreating into his room. The door slammed shut.

Oddly enough, shouting at his brother didn't make him feel any better. Mycroft felt empty.

He pulled himself up onto the sofa, reaching for the first-aid kit. With swift fingers, he began to take care of his injuries – they weren't much, in all honesty, just a lot of bruising. When he was done with that, his knee was begging for relief, so he went to fetch some ice.

With a bag of ice tied awkwardly to his knee, Mycroft hobbled to Sherlock's room. He made his way in and noticed Sherlock 'sleeping'. It was so easy to detect fake sleep. He didn't know what to say, if he should say anything, and finally decided against it. There were so many things going on that Sherlock didn't know, and Mycroft couldn't share it with him. After all, Sherlock was only twelve.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Mycroft leaned over and pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead. Sherlock pried open one of his eyes, and asked the damn question he always asked : "What happened back with Mummy and Da?"

Mycroft shook his head, reaching over to tuck the boy in. "You know I won't tell you that, Sherlock."

"Fine. What are you going to do?"

"About my injuries? I think they'll heal. My knee is the worst injury, I imagine, but nothing is broken. I'll just try not to run any marathons, yes?"

"You're not going to _do _anything about the wankers who attacked you?"

"Language. And no, I'm not. Maybe they'll go to jail, maybe they won't. Likely they won't. In that case, I don't want to give them a reason to go after us. And," Mycroft added, patting Sherlock's head, "I imagine that it would be for the best if we _don't _get in the public eye."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with a mixture of frustration and concern. Then he just flopped back on his bed, pouting. "Whatever."

"I apologise. For my words."

"Whatever."

"I love you."

"Whatever."

Silence.

Mycroft awkwardly tapped Sherlock's forehead and left.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft very rarely drank. He'd never done so while underage, as to provide a good example for Sherlock (and, frankly, to not get absolutely murdered by his parents). Even after, he would just drink here and there. A glass of wine after a stressful day at Uni was heavenly. True _drunkenness, _however, only occurred a few times in Mycroft's life. One of those instances was where he had met his boyfriend. He didn't particularly want to think of him anymore.

After he had hyperventilated and seen Sherlock to bed, Mycroft was _exhausted. _Ashamed, of course, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. He assumed it was only a natural course of events after what he had seen. All of it evolved from _that night, _and he didn't want to think about it any longer. So he had collapsed into bed and stared at the ceiling.

Hell, he was in _pain. _

His knee was the worst bit, of course. It was swollen and Mycroft could only thank God that it wasn't broken. Still, walking was difficult. The thought of heading to work tomorrow frightened him.

He did manage to get to sleep rather quickly, despite all that. Through it all, he still felt a lingering sense of guilt from when he had snapped at Sherlock. He wanted to make it up to him, somehow – but it wasn't as if Mycroft could think of something to do. An idea finally hit him just as he was being lulled off to sleep.

Sherlock held one childish fantasy that Mycroft didn't have the heart to squash. Ever since he was little, he had wanted to be a pirate. He would bumble around the backyard with a makeshift sword, swatting at the flowers and chasing after squirrels. Even at twelve, Mycroft could hear him concoct the most fanciful pirate stories in the bath. It made him smile.

Perhaps Mycroft would suggest that Sherlock take a bath, and then go read for a while. Sherlock would only make up stories when he thought nobody was around. It always put him in a good mood. Mycroft thought of that, whimsically, as he fell asleep.

oOo

Mornings were never enjoyable, but this morning was absolutely awful.

Due to his poor diet, nausea and stomach aches were an almost constant problem. In the warm heat of the morning, it was especially bad. It even eclipsed the pain at first, and Mycroft rolled over to groan. The action nearly pushed him off the sofa.

Sometimes Sherlock teased Mycroft, saying that he had been put on the most effective diet in the world. Mycroft always told him off for it. There had been times where Mycroft would have killed to lose weight, and lose it quickly. After going through it, however, Mycroft wished like hell it had never happened. It wasn't just nausea that plagued him – he felt _lethargic _so damn often, on top of everything else. There were other complaints.

The pain hit him.

It wasn't sharp anymore, not like they had first been. No, now it was an all-encompassing _soreness. _When he threw his legs over the side of the bed, his knee gave protest. He drew up his trouser leg and stared at the ugly purple bruises that completely encircled it. Damn it all. The ice that had been around his knee had long since turned to water, and Mycroft hobbled to the kitchen to replace it.

The pastries he had knicked from the coffeeshop would have to do for breakfast. Mycroft sat at the table, feeling miserable and sorry for himself, until it was twenty minutes after Sherlock was supposed to be awake. The boy himself padded out of his room and took a seat at the breakfast table. Another bolt of guilt hit Mycroft, even though he knew there was no logical reason for feeling so.

"My apologies for not waking you." Mycroft repeated in a soft voice, pushing the pastries towards the boy. Sherlock took one hesitantly, and just nibbled on it every so often. As soon as he had one in his grasp, he pushed it towards his brother. Mycroft took one and chewed. "You've done all of your homework, I presume? Even your English?"

"Is your knee any better?" Sherlock asked abruptly, pushing his pastry to the side. "Your arm?"

Pulling up his sleeve, Mycroft caught a glance at his stitches. They were a bit redder than usual, and Mycroft didn't know if that was a good or bad sign. Either way, they would have to do. He pushed his sleeve down. "I shall live. You're to go to school, Sherlock, you'll be leaving soon." A pause. "Thank you."

"Whatever."

oOo

The trip to his work had been hellish. After Sherlock had despondently thrown on his pack and left for school, Mycroft had changed. Somewhere as he was heading out the door, he realized that he was walking with a limp. It wasn't obvious, thank God, but any attempts to correct it resulted in extreme pain. Damn.

He shifted into his work without enthusiasm. The entire day, it seemed, was awful. The first customer had moved a chair and had hit him squarely in his bad knee. That incident led him to curling up in a ball in the back room for a good five minutes, chewing holes into his lip and trying _desperately_ not to cry out. His manager had seen him and had given him another yelling-at. He then asked what had caused his black eye, and at Mycroft's whimpering, stupid excuse, he simply scoffed and told him that, if he were to mess up again, he would be out. There were a lot of people who needed jobs, Mycroft Holmes, and he could bloody use one that _wasn't _rude to the customers.

After the lecture was over, Mycroft was up and miserable.

He should have called off.

But then he'd get the same lecture regardless.

His second customer had stared blatantly at his black eye, but without asking a single question on it. Mycroft wanted to snap at them, to blow up, but with only one more error to go, he felt as if he were walking on thin-ice.

However, and Mycroft was very pleased by this, three of his coworkers stopped him and asked him if anything was wrong. Granted, Mycroft wouldn't _say _anything. He would just give them his most polite smile and pat their shoulder before hurrying onto his day.

In truth, he didn't even think about Gregory Lestrade until the silver-haired man walked in.

He supposed that the officer should have been higher on his list of worries, but frankly, that list was obnoxiously large enough. After all, his job had been placed in jeopardy, his knee was killing him, and his brother wasn't that keen on him. The silver-haired savior wasn't exactly on the top of his list.

"Good morning, sir, what can I get for you today?" Mycroft told him dully. He had gotten in the habit of ducking his face so that his features were cast in shadow. It made his blackened eye harder to see, and it wasn't like most of the customers _looked _at their server anyway. He had a sickening feeling, though, that Lestrade would be an exception.

Lestrade looked up at him with undisguised suspicion. It took him approximately two seconds to notice the black eye, and he was even more obvious then. His eyes widened and he curled his fingers into a fist on the table.

Mycroft repeated his past question dully.

"Mycroft." Lestrade hissed up at him, his eyes searching up and down. Obviously he noticed that Mycroft was leaning more on one leg than the other. Unlike Mycroft, Lestrade was _obvious _about his observations. When he saw the limp, he reached over and gently touched Mycroft's forearm.

Mycroft flinched entirely. It wasn't because he was in any physical pain, but the thought that Lestrade had _recognized _him frightened him to his very core. He took a step back despite himself, and he almost repeated the same amazing blunder he had done yesterday. Lestrade was quite evidently confused.

Oh, Mycroft knew the damn type. Tried to help everyone, and was horribly confused whenever someone didn't want their help. For the first time since he had seen him, Mycroft was annoyed at his personality. It didn't have a logical basis (_helping people _was usually a good trait), but Mycroft went on ahead anyway.

"Er. The usual." Lestrade finally mumbled to him, drumming his fingers on the table. Even as he dropped the subject, those brown eyes looked up at Mycroft with such concern that Mycroft felt as he had eaten something very, very sweet. The feeling festered in his stomach and Mycroft turned away to get his order.

Sometimes his panic attacks came during the day, and those were the worst ones. To shut oneself in the bathroom and sob and feel like they were properly _dying, _that soon they just wouldn't _be there, _was the most terrifying thing. What was even worse was to extricate himself from the loo and pretend like everything was fine. He felt awful, but he didn't think that they would happen today.

Before _the night, _he hadn't had anything like those. They had come wholly from the past few months, and Mycroft detested himself for being so weak. He was supposed to support himself and Sherlock, and life was difficult enough for the young boy already. It was depressing.

His chest felt tight, but Mycroft thought he could pull himself together enough. He fetched the coffee and the pastry, but shoved it off on another coworker to give it to Lestrade. If Mycroft didn't need the job so desperately, he felt worried enough to quit and find another. Perhaps he was overreacting on that point, but _God, _he just wanted Lestrade to not be there.

"It's your table, Mycroft. Mind go getting the tip?"

His coworker's question was soft and gentle. They all knew something had gone wrong last night, though they weren't interested enough to find out what.

Mycroft gave a shaky nod and limped back over to the table. The stares were awful, and suddenly Mycroft Holmes was assaulted with a memory.

He often sat alone at lunch, when he was in school. There were one or two people he had deemed tolerable – but who, in turn, did not think _him _tolerable. He was aware that people always whispered about him – Mycroft Holmes, a genius but overweight, blushing to himself as he picked through his lunch. Occasionally his eyes would flick up, he would stare at another student, deduce their life history, and then go back to his meal.

Walking across the lunchroom was his greatest nightmare.

_Everyone's _eyes were on him, watching him, judging him, making little false observations of their own. It was horrid.

He looked down at Lestrade's table. As per the usual, Lestrade had left before his money had been collected. He pawed through the currency and stuffed it in his pocket (_ten _bloody pounds, the flatterer), before he noticed the note tucked it with it.

_Meet me outside the coffee-shop as soon as the place is closed. I won't let the Yard know. Please. I'm worried. GL_

It was such a touching, personal, _warm _note, that Mycroft thought of little else throughout the day.

The real question remained : would Mycroft show up?


	6. Chapter 6

_(( Hi, everyone! Nice to see you all again! I've made it definite, now - updating every Saturday, unless otherwise said. I really like this story, and I'm trying to make it just as much of a cute Holmesian brother story as a Mystrade fic, so we'll see how it all balances out. I read every single one of your guys' comments, and you're all so awfully sweet with all of this. Thanks for all the support!))_

Of course he was bloody going to go.

It was Lestrade. And even after the incident, Mycroft still felt warm butterflies drifting about his stomach as he read over the note. Damn it all. If he could have anything in the world, he would have shut down all emotions concerning that devilish officer. No, strike that – if he could have anything in the world, he would have shut down all emotions _entirely. _

There was also another point of interest.

Lestrade was _worried _about him.

Mycroft couldn't remember a time when people were worried about him. Sherlock seemed concerned at times, yes, but Sherlock always trusted Mycroft to return at the end of the day. His parents had never seemed worried – after all, he was _Mycroft Holmes, _who was going to be something big and important and was never going to get in trouble, ever. And now here was Lestrade, who was not only worried about him, but voiced his worry.

He felt woozy.

The rest of the day passed by in a painful, dull blur. Mycroft looked at the tips he had gotten with distaste and shoved them deep into his pocket. He had the most insane urge to leave the tips at the shop, because god damn it, he couldn't handle being confronted again. Still, though, he had to get dinner for Sherlock, and for himself. Swallowing, he changed back into his regular clothing and made his way to the school.

People were _staring _at him. Mycroft didn't think he was the topic of much gossip, but everyone seemed to be staring at his limp and his blackened eye. He hoped to God that Sherlock would hurry up. All he wanted to do was get Sherlock home, feed him, and then go meet his Prince Charm – Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. That was all.

"Your eye has gotten worse."

"Wonderful to see you too, Sherlock." Mycroft greeted him wearily, placing his hands in his pockets. Slowly, he began to walk home with his brother. Usually, he would have offered to take Sherlock's pack. That wasn't an option now. Sherlock was working to keep up with him, still, and he didn't spare Mycroft any dirty glances as they hurried along. "I shall be out tonight. I only expect it to be an hour or two. You know what you must do."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, Mycroft? You're leaving _again? _ Did you learn no lessons from last night? What on Earth be so important as to drag you out again?"

Sherlock wasn't yet old enough to be able to hide his thought processes. Or, perhaps, Mycroft just knew his brother too well. It was obvious that Sherlock was thinking, very, _very _hard. Finally, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and asked, "You _did _get beaten up by some _street thugs, _yes?"

Mycroft looked at the small boy skeptically. "Of course, Sherlock. Who else would have done so?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Together, they walked in silence back to their flat. When they had entered the neighborhood again, Sherlock was the one to grab his brother's hand. Sherlock had never initiated that before, and Mycroft was wholly touched by such an action. It was a good thing, too, because as they had entered their neighborhood again, Mycroft had begun feeling…poorly.

He hoped to God it wouldn't worsen, but his chest was feeling tight. His breath was coming faster. A light sweat broke out on his face. For the thousandth time, Mycroft hated these little attacks. He thought of them as weakness personified, and he couldn't find a reliable way to rid himself of them.

But as Sherlock grabbed his hand, Mycroft felt more relaxed. Just enough to keep him together as he opened the flat for them and pushed Sherlock in. He withdrew the tips from his pocket and fingered the ten pound note. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight of it.

Chinese. Ordering Chinese sounded heavenly, and Mycroft reached for the menu they kept near the kitchen. Sherlock smiled when he saw Mycroft reaching for it. For a few seconds, Mycroft thought everything at peace. Even his knee started to hurt a little less.

"First you must start your homework. Go on, then, I shall help you with your English."

Some minutes later, they were both sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock was pouring over a passage they were to read, and Mycroft would occasionally point out words here and there. Finally, Sherlock began to ask questions. "Where are you going?"

Mycroft thought that, perhaps, he should tell Sherlock. Logically, if something happened to him, Sherlock should know where he was. But he didn't tell him. He didn't want Sherlock to know about Lestrade just yet, for whatever reason. Perhaps he didn't want Sherlock teasing him. Perhaps he didn't want Sherlock, heaven forbid, following him. And…perhaps, if it didn't work out, he didn't want Sherlock pitying him.

"Oh, I must go out and collect a few things, talk to a few people. All terribly boring adult work, Sherlock. You shan't be interested. Just stay in the flat and amuse yourself, would you?" Mycroft asked him, his hand drifting underneath the table to rub uncomfortably at his knee.

The doorbell rang.

Five minutes later, there was just the sound of gentle chewing. Mycroft knew it wasn't particularly healthy, and he felt guilty that he hadn't given Sherlock a proper meal, but it was something. Sherlock seemed happy, either way. He was jovial and talkative, telling Mycroft about the various schoolmates and teachers. Mycroft listened patiently, occasionally offering a gentle world of encouragement or sympathy. Even if Mycroft couldn't force himself to be emotional around Sherlock, he could still listen to what was going on with him. Something their parents never did.

_Nightthingboyfriendnodon'tthinkaboutit._

His fingers tapped anxiously on the table, and his good leg shook. Of course Mycroft knew Sherlock noticed, but the young boy didn't say anything until it was time to leave. He stood up and brushed off his trouser legs. There was a mad electricity in the air.

"I must be heading out. Do take care of yourself. I will be home later in the night."

As Mycroft was heading out the door, though, he was suddenly surprised by Sherlock standing directly behind him. Sherlock shuffled his feet and then put a hand on the back of Mycroft's polo. "Mycroft? You're not…seeing anyone, are you?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him and freely laughed. "What a ridiculous notion, Sherlock. Of course not." As he walked out the door, his hand clapped over his bad knee. The limp was getting better, but the twinges of pain were still apparent.

The walk from his neighborhood to the coffee shop again was one of the worst things Mycroft had ever experienced. Indeed, it was nearly as bad as the incident itself. His chest was tight and he felt the world swim before his eyes again. One hand went to the side of a building in order to support himself. For a few minutes, he gagged, his dinner requesting to come up. After a few minutes, the world steadied.

The rest of the walk occurred without incident.

When Mycroft showed up at the coffee shop, he was alone. Fear started to brew deep in his gut. What if Lestrade wasn't the kind gentleman Mycroft thought he was? What if Lestrade had just sent him here to laugh at him? His leg twitched painfully, and he just sat on one of the little tables. He would wait. Yes, he would wait like a damn twit, while Lestrade would laugh at him from afar.

For a full five minutes, Mycroft just fumed in silence. What a fool he was. Fancying a man like this. It wasn't decent, and Mycroft had far more things to worry about. What had he been thinking? That he would show up, and Lestrade would be there to sweep him off his feet? Like one of those damn fairy tales?

"Hey."

A hand was on his shoulder. Mycroft jumped and turned around. Lestrade was just a few inches away from him, and Mycroft's eyes widened. The blackened one gave a few twinges of pain.

"Oh – sorry. Did I frighten you?" Lestrade asked, taking a seat opposite Mycroft. Mycroft stared unashamedly for a good few moments. After all, Mycroft had never seen Lestrade out of his Yarder clothes before. He had a leather jacket on over his button-up, and his trousers were dark and stained with oil in several places. Overall, he looked like the most gorgeous man Mycroft had ever seen. He wet his lips.

"No, you did not. It's just night out. You never know who may be wandering around." Mycroft replied airily, leaning back in his chair. His heart was thumping like a rabbit, and he forced his eyes to remain firmly on Lestrade. "May I ask as to why you arranged this meeting?"

Lestrade let out a chuckle. "I think it's obvious enough, mate." Leaning forward, he jabbed one thick finger vaguely towards Mycroft's eye. Hopelessly, Mycroft felt his eyes rake over his well-built frame before he mentally kicked himself for doing so. "I'm here about that."

He shouldn't have been watching Lestrade like a dog watches for dinner. No, Mycroft should have been deducing him. His eyes raked over him again, but for an entirely different reason.

He rode a motorbike, which he often worked on. He lived alone with a dog. He worked often. Often called his little sister to make sure that she was alright. He got on well with his coworkers. He was an avid coffee-drinker. He was looking for a serious relationship, but currently, was single.

Mycroft's heart soared.

"There is nothing to talk of concerning this. I have a feeling you know the reason concerning _this, _and I am letting you know now that I plan to do nothing to prosecute them." Mycroft quipped. He had the urge to cross one leg over the other – but the action caused him so much pain that he visibly winced.

Lestrade blinked at him. "Right. So that was you, then. Back there. You nearly gave me a bleeding heart attack, I'll have you know. There was a damn lot of blood on that knife, and I was thinking that you were going to be my first homicide case. The man who serves me coffee every morning. Could you imagine?" He played with his fingers on top of the table, and Mycroft noted dully that he was a smoker. "Why don't you want to tell anyone? Those men could have killed you. Besides, what were you doing in that part of London? I swear to God I'm called there every week. Everything from domestic abuse to burglaries. You don't live there, do you?"

And that was where Mycroft's pride came in. True, he wasn't as competitive as Sherlock. However, he had more pride than that young child would ever have. And he so desperately wanted to impress Lestrade, even now. Even with a blackened eye and a swollen knee, Mycroft wanted to impress Lestrade. So he just leaned back and shook his head. "Of course I don't live there. Don't be absurd. I have merely just moved to London, and I'm afraid that I got lost. I do not want to tell anyone because I do not see the point in arresting them. If the neighborhood is as bad as you say, then more will come to fill their place. That's all."

"But…" Lestrade's eyebrows f urrowed. "It'd be the right thing to do. Turning them in."

Mycroft shook his head and uttered a quick, short, bitter laugh. "I'm sure you can tell by your little sister that the right thing to do doesn't always get done."

Lestrade jumped in his chair, and suddenly, he seemed angry. Thankfully, it seemed to vanish after a moment, replaced by obvious confusion. "Sorry. How did you know about that?"

For the first time in his life, Mycroft felt nervous about his deduction. However, he still spoke with all the calmness and authority of a politician. "Your ear is red and shiny. That only comes from holding your mobile between your shoulder and your head for a long period of time. Obviously, as you were getting ready to leave, you received a call. It must have been very important to you, considering that you were already running late. Not a parent, I think – those, we can push off. Someone who depends on you, then. A little sibling was obvious, the sister was a guess. So your sister must be in a state of urgency, then, and you worry about her. You'd do anything to speak to her."

Lestrade blinked at him. The only sounds Mycroft could here were a gentle chirping of a sparrow and the mad beat of his heart.

"Bloody hell. Yeah. That's…yeah, that's…something." Lestrade coughed out finally. His gaze on Mycroft was different, now. Before, it had been a _pitying _look, like someone would give a domestic abuse victim. Now, Lestrade was looking at him with something like…admiration. "You're right. Er, little sister got into drugs a couple of years ago. Just as I got a job at the Yard, in fact. I just want to make sure she's doing okay."

Mycroft had never been so damn proud. He was lost in a cloud of his own superiority before he was thrown roughly back into reality. Lestrade was _laughing. _A true laugh, from deep down in the gut. Mycroft wasn't sure whether to be mortified or to laugh along with him. He chose an emotionless stare.

"Well, I've got to admit it to you, Mycroft. I had you pegged _completely _wrong. I thought you were just this timid little mousy bloke, serving coffee. But look at you! You're like a bloody mind reader!" Lestrade managed to get out through his titters, and Mycroft managed a chuckle along with him. He calmed down soon after, and looked at Mycroft with a warm eye. "So, what're you doing working in a coffeeshop? Bloke like you, you should be out campaigning to be the PM."

There wasn't a chance in hell that Mycroft was going to tell him. Not a damn chance.

"It's brilliantly difficult to acquire a career in the government, Gregory." The name rolled off his tongue easily, and Mycroft felt a devilish sense of closeness to the man. "I'm merely doing this to pay the rent until I require a more stable income."

"Understandable. I'm guessing you live alone, then?"

Mycroft's heart thumped in his chest. "I'm afraid so. No family to speak of, no significant other." _No friends. No brother._

"Oh? Pity." Greg gave him a smile that nearly made him faint. It was warm and inviting, and Greg leaned across the table a tad as he said it. "Intelligent, handsome bloke like you? I bet half of the ladies of London must be in tears."

Mycroft wasn't sure what made him tell Greg. It probably had something to do with the copious amount of lies he'd been feeding him, as well with the stupid desire to let Greg know that he liked men. And perhaps Greg liked men, too. And perhaps they liked each other. And perhaps-

"Then let them cry, for I'm more interested in the…male persuasion." Mycroft muttered, tracing designs into the table between them. His eyes were as low as they could be.

"Nothing wrong with that." Greg told him, and leaned over to put a finger underneath Mycroft's chin. Mycroft felt a bolt of electricity go through him, and he looked up at Greg. Damn it. If he had been standing, his knees would have gone weak. "I like both the blokes and the lasses, myself."

It would have been so easy to say something, to try and further the relationship. Witty responses that could be clever alludes to a date filled in his mind, but his throat was completely dry. Finally, he stuttered something out like, "It's late. I must be getting home." Not exactly a lie, but in Mycroft's mind, it was the worst thing that he could've said.

"Right." Leaning back and taking his finger with him, he gestured to his bike. "Want me to take you home? Your leg looks like it's bothering you."

_God, yes, I want you to take me home. _

"Apologies, I can't. I'm…" _Living in the poorest part of London, and I lied to you about it. I'll shatter the half-decent image you have of me. If I stay any longer with you, I'm liable to do something stupid. _"Just _terrified _of motorbikes. I'll walk, Gregory. Thank you for the lovely talk, and I assure you, I'm fine. I will alert you if I change my mind."

"Wait!" Greg stopped him as Mycroft stood. "Your number. Mind if I get it?"

In Mycroft's mind, Greg should've added a stipulation to that. Mycroft thought that he would clarify, perhaps say that the number was only used for emergencies, or even that Greg wasn't his friend. But no. Greg just let the question hang, and Mycroft gave him his number without hesitation.

They both stood to depart, and Mycroft watched him slide his helmet on. Damn it all. It was practically unfair, with Greg in his leather jacket and straddling his bike. "Nice to meet you, My!" He shouted out, muffled, before he started the vehicle and left.

Mycroft was left, in the dark, his mind a jumbled mess. He turned and started to walk. He couldn't have been more surprised if Lestrade had kissed him right there.

They had to meet again.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock didn't say a word as Mycroft limped back into the flat. Granted, with the way his eyes were going over him, he could have spoken volumes. Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was analysing him, trying to tell where he was and who he was with. Given the disappointed look on Sherlock's face, the little hellion didn't know.

The trip back had been surprisingly easy. Perhaps because Mycroft had wandered about like a fool in love, imagining all the ways that he could approach Lestrade again. He hadn't even thought about the people likely skulking about in the alleys, or what weapons they held. Hell, even _the thing _left his mind. As he walked back to his flat, he really was just an average twenty-four year old.

"Did you do your homework?" Mycroft asked him politely, immediately looking for the first cushioned surface. The journey, as pleasant as it had been, had been hell for his knee. He nearly collapsed on their sofa. As it was, he tipped his head back and groaned as the pressure was released from his joint. Sherlock had scuffled over with a sheepish look on his face.

"Erm. I didn't tell you before, but...ah, it's Friday." Sherlock's voice was uncharacteristically quiet.

Oh, damn. Weekends were especially difficult for Mycroft. Sherlock was not in school, which left little options. Taking a day off from work wouldn't bode well for their finances, so that meant Mycroft either had to take him along (which wouldn't go over well with the management), or to leave him to his own devices in their flat. Sherlock never stayed in the flat for long. Of course, he never told Mycroft where he had gone, and Mycroft could rarely guess it.

"I see. Your homework can wait for a day or two, then. It is rather late, however. Would you like to go off to bed?" Mycroft quipped politely. Of course, Sherlock never _wanted _to go to sleep, but he was a budding teenager. And a budding sociopath, besides. He enjoyed the privacy of his own room.

Mycroft's eyes settled on Sherlock's face. Sherlock had the appearance of someone who had been thinking very, very hard. There was also another rare expression on Sherlock's face – not quite fear, but anxiety indeed. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and submissive. It was so entirely unlike Sherlock that Mycroft's hand latched onto his shoulder in concern. "Er, actually, I was wondering if we could…watch a movie. On the telly."

Sherlock had never, in his life, suggested that they do something _together _before.

oOo

Only but five minutes later, they were on the sofa. Mycroft's leg was propped up on a kitchen chair, and Sherlock was, surprisingly enough, curled up against Mycroft's side. It was a rare fraternal moment between the two, and Mycroft wondered what had brought all this on.

"Why did we leave?"

Oh, damn it. The little manipulator. Mycroft sighed and looked over at him. "You know that I will not tell you, Sherlock. It is not a matter for you, and it is resolved, regardless. Everything is fine, Sherlock. You need not worry yourself about it."

A pause. A quiet question. "You're not going to leave, are you?"

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed together, and he looked down at Sherlock's face. Sherlock, himself, was placidly watching the telly. It didn't even look like he was waiting for an answer to the question, but his twitching fingers told Mycroft that he needed the answer like he needed air. "I am not going to leave. Why would I do so? You have no way of supporting yourself."

Sherlock took the answer, but his fingers didn't stop twitching. He linked them together to calm himself down. "You don't…have anyone, do you?"

"You asked me that question before, Sherlock. No, I do not 'have' anyone. I do not plan on 'having' anyone. I can not 'have' anyone." If Mycroft sounded bitter, he intended to be. Lestrade invaded his thoughts again, and he tried to shove them away. "Why do you insist on asking me this?"

"Hypothetically." Sherlock continued on, as if Mycroft hadn't even answered him. "If you did find someone, you would make sure that they treated you well, yes? Mentally…" Sherlock's eyes raked across his leg and his eye. "And physically?"

That was an odd hypothetical. He raised on eyebrow at Sherlock. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing." Sherlock's voice was monotone and unhappy. He left his brother's side and, without a further word, disappeared into his bedroom.

Mycroft was dumbstruck.

What on _Earth _was Sherlock implying? Was he implying that Mycroft had indeed found someone, and that they were cruel to him? It was a ridiculous thought. First off, _having someone _would be extraordinarily difficult, given his situation. And he would never go through with it if the person was cruel to him. It would be absolute madness. Yet, Sherlock had gotten this strange little idea in his head. As Sherlock left, Mycroft laid on his back on the sofa. He would have to dissuade Sherlock from such a stupid notion.

How to go about that was a bit more difficult to say. For a good hour, Mycroft thought of ideas. The thinking tired him out, and he was just about to go to sleep when he started to hear the noise.

It didn't start quietly. It was a jarring interruption that set Mycroft's heart pounding.

Loud, angry knocks on the door. Banging, really, and it wasn't a hard conclusion to make that the person who was pounding on the door was drunk. Mycroft froze on the sofa, scared beyond reason. Oh, no. _No. _Not again, not here, not in his flat. He had always thought of his flat as his fortress, as impenetrable. Of course he knew, even then, that _that _was a fanciful idea. However, the thought of someone breaking in terrified him to his very core.

"I know you're in there, you _bitch!" _

A man. Inebriated. Not the man who had beaten him up, thankfully, but frightening nonetheless. Mycroft just lay there in utter horror. His phone was just on the table, and Lestrade's number was entered into it. If he could find it, get into it, text him to come over –

No, he couldn't do that. Lestrade would come over, and see where he lived, and then he would be horribly disgusted. What was more, he would see Mycroft as a _liar, _which hurt even more. Even as a man was thrashing upon his door, Mycroft didn't want Lestrade to see him in destitution.

Mycroft only mentally begged that he would go away. He didn't know what he wanted.

"_Julia!_ Get your _arse _out here!"

Mycroft let out a breath he didn't know that he'd been holding. No, the man wasn't looking for him. The man was looking for the woman who lived a few doors to the right. Hopefully he'd leave soon, or pass out, because Mycroft didn't know what he'd do if he came in.

The man was jiggling the doorhandle. The other hand still firmly banged on the door. Mycroft couldn't handle it anymore. Even if he couldn't tell Greg to come over, Mycroft needed to know someone was there. He hadn't realised that his hands were shaking. His chest felt tight, yes, and he was just two unorganized thoughts away from having a full-blown panic attack. He kept his words calm, even if he , himself, was not.

_Hello, again. Apologies for the lateness. I was merely inquiring if you arrived home safely. I do not trust those motorbikes. M _

A pause. That was safe enough. He might as well play up his pretend fear of the vehicle. Focusing on the text, Mycroft drew his attention away from the door and from the pretend visitor.

_Awh, that's sweet of you. (: I got home all right. Always will, on that trusty thing. Thanks for worrying. You? GL_

_Perfectly so. My limp has been going away. Thank you terribly for your worry. It really is quite kind. M_

_You got mugged, mate. It's not worry, it's basic bloody decency. Anyhow, I was wondering if you'd like to go get a coffee sometime. Well, not a coffee, considering you work at a coffeeshop. Anywhere you'd like. GL_

It wasn't a date.

It _wasn't _a date.

Gregory Lestrade wasn't asking him on a date.

If anything, it was a friendly meeting. Mycroft thought about rejecting him, but he physically couldn't. His sentimental longings were beginning to take over his logical reason, and he felt like he should've hated that. But he didn't. If anything, he was falling deeper for the gentleman.

Either way, he was no longer focusing on the bangs at the door. No, he was focused entirely on Greg Lestrade. The panic attack seemed miles away. Mycroft felt light, and on top of the world. He could've danced, sang. He was in a private location, and he didn't have to worry about his emotions making him look foolish.

In all of his delight about Lestrade, Mycroft didn't even think that Sherlock would be able to hear the bangings. He didn't even think that Sherlock could, possibly, be afraid.

_The coffeeshop actually sounds fine. I get off my shift at four, tomorrow. Would you mind? M_

_I'm free, tomorrow. I'll see you there, Mycroft. GL_

If Mycroft had been a man of lesser composure, he would have giggled to himself. However, even if he felt free right now, he was still emotionally repressive. So he just smiled to himself and placed his mobile on the table. The bangs had stopped. Evidently the drunken man had stumbled off somewhere else. The event would have filled Mycroft with more apprehension (_was he going to come back? What if he brought help? What if he attempted to break the door down? ), _but for a second, he was just a twenty-four-year old man with a crush.

He stood up and, with a swagger (that was somewhat tainted by the limp), went to go clean up the rest of the kitchen. Every nerve was on a live wire. God, he couldn't sleep now. The kitchen was cleaned quickly, and Mycroft shoved most of Sherlock's things back into his bag. Their held conversation in the earlier in the day came back to him, and Mycroft chewed the inside of his lip.

The thought of Sherlock brought down his high.

He couldn't go on behaving like this. Not when Sherlock still depended on him so much. Sherlock was likely upset, over whatever Mycroft had said, and Mycroft needed to go comfort him. After all, the boy was only twelve, nearing thirteen. It was an instrumental time in his life. Romance was nice, but Mycroft needed to raise the child.

So, he tugged his shirt down and went to go into Sherlock's room.

He'd tried to give the boy so much. Of course, this damnable flat was a good step down from their home, but Mycroft couldn't help but get the suspicion that Sherlock liked it better. Here, Mycroft paid attention to him. Here, Sherlock was given privacy and could do as he wished. Here, he was loved. Still, in terms of material, Sherlock had learned to go about with a lot less. He didn't complain _much _about that, but it was still a harsh blow to Mycroft's pride. That was certainly one of the reasons why he had given Sherlock the bedroom.

When he opened the door, he had a speech prepared. About how much Sherlock meant to him, about how Sherlock had a lot of growing up to do, the virtues of fraternity, etc., etc. It was all going to be very touching, Mycroft decided. Sherlock would look up at him with proud eyes and hug his middle and then Sherlock would fall asleep, and everything would be _fine. _They'd wake up and he'd go to school and Mycroft would work and it would be _fine. _Sherlock would always, on Mycroft's life, be _fine. _

Sherlock wasn't in his bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft sat across from Lestrade, contentedly stirring a few sugars into his coffee. His shift had gone and ended without much of a hitch. Of course, Mycroft felt like he'd been on cloud nine all day, because there was the promise of Lestrade after. He couldn't explain the happiness he felt in spending time with the man – with Lestrade, he was someone different. Someone certainly a bit more special and put-together than he really was. If he wanted to destroy all of the emotion and sentiment that he felt, Lestrade would merely smile at him and tell him that _that _was perfectly okay. Mycroft hadn't tested that theory yet, but it made him feel like he hadn't felt for a long, long while.

It wasn't perfect, certainly. Lestrade didn't know where he lived, and Mycroft wasn't going to tell him. Mycroft desperately wanted to tell him about the event last night, how frightened and worried and guilty he had been feeling over it, but he just swallowed that back. Even Lestrade couldn't handle all that, as patient and as understanding as he was.

Lestrade also didn't know that he had a brother.

Last night, when Sherlock had left his room, Mycroft had felt a singular bolt of panic that was enough to kill him, right there. Granted, it only took three minutes for Mycroft to look out the window and notice that Sherlock was clinging like a bush baby to the fire escape. As simple as it was, Mycroft wanted to share his worries with Lestrade. But he didn't, despite the topic of siblings came up in their conversation.

"I've actually got three younger sisters. You already know about the one who's just getting off the drugs. She's taking it damn well, too. She's into rehab and everything, and she's doing really, really well. I just wish she'd get into contact with her big brother more often, you know? I worry about her the most. The other one's in Uni right now, bless her heart. Beautiful and intelligent, and she's got half the university swooning because of it. And the last one's still at home, with Mum, doing well. God bless that damn woman, though, for all the hell I put her through. After Da died, she had to work to support four bloody kids, and that left most of the child-raising to me. Poor lass still feels poor because of it, and I tell her that it's fine, but she won't listen." Lestrade commented, occasionally stopping to sip at his coffee. Mycroft listened intently, for two reasons. One, he truly was interested. He had already deduced that Lestrade had little sibling_s_, and now he was learning that he was right. And two, whenever Lestrade wanted to make sure Mycroft understood something, he would lean across the table and stare directly into Mycroft's eyes. "Sorry, I'm not boring you, am I? Tendency to do that."

"No, no!" Mycroft waved his hand. "You would never bore me, Lestr- Gregory. I find your past life immensely interesting. As you've stated, it is rather funny that I served you coffee and knew nothing about you. Other than what I observed."

Lestrade snorted at him whimsically. "Oh, damn you and your 'other than what I observed'. I'm surprised you didn't know all of my little sisters' _names _just from looking at me. You've got any siblings? Or any little ones of your own?"

_Yes. I have a twelve-year-old brother who is twelve years my junior. I live with him. He's a horror, and he's come to be very good at observations. He's horrendously thin and he drinks more milk than a newborn child does. I'll never be able to control his hair, he adores playing pirate in the bathtub, and my God, Lestrade, he's been through more than a little boy should ever have to go through. _

That wasn't what he said.

No, instead, he chuckled and laughed Lestrade's question off with an airy, "I should think not, Gregory. An only child and absolutely no children. I work at a coffee shop, you know; I could hardly afford to support a child with this pay. Perhaps later, when I find a lovely gentleman, or when I receive a higher-paying job. I'm not against the entire idea, of course, although I doubt my ability as a potential father."

Good Lord, talking about children, and they were only on the first date/not a date. Mycroft was about to swoon.

"Yeah, that's understandable. I'd love to have children, m'self, but only when I get to settle down. I don't want to have to go through what Mum went through, you know?"

Mycroft leaned forward, and, suddenly, he wasn't thinking of how well-built Lestrade was or his beautiful hair or his frankly astonishing eyes. His own eyes were filled with concern. "Are you speaking merely of the raising of four children on her own, or…? You mentioned your father had an accident."

Lestrade blinked at him, as if he couldn't remember saying that. "Right! Yeah, I did. I was mentioning about how she had to raise four kids on a nurse's salary, but if we're getting on the topic. When I was about eight, Da got into a motorbike accident. Some drunk bloke just plowed into his bike. Dead before he hit the street. Proper shame, it is, and Mum was heartbroken. Still is, in a way, I think." Shrugging his shoulders, Lestrade took a solitary sip of coffee.

Before he could help himself, before he could tell himself that it was an awful idea, and before Mycroft could stop himself from feeling the full force of accursed emotion, Mycroft had leaned over and held onto the man's wrist. Tightly. "Oh, my dear Gregory, I cannot imagine what that must have been like for your mother. Or for you, even at so young an age."

Mycroft felt the inexplicable need to tell his own story. It would feel _nice, _to open up the boxes in his memory. The boxes, themselves, had three labels on them – _the night, the thing, _and _the boyfriend. _They were stored away. No one had seen them. And yet, in the most sappy way possible, Mycroft felt like Lestrade might…appreciate it. Help him, even.

Then again, Mycroft wasn't a brave man, because he wasn't stupid.

Looking up at him, Lestrade gave him a small smile. "No worries. Ages ago, really. I still keep a motorbike, upsets my Mum like mad. But Da loved them, and I do, too." Stealthily enough, Lestrade moved his hand down until he was grasping Mycroft's hand.

And that was how Mycroft Holmes, still in his coffeeshop uniform, came to be sitting by Gregory Lestrade. _Holding hands. _

They said nothing, for a good half-minute. What was there to say? Mycroft felt the need to blurt out the most embarrassing things, none of which would help his cause. So he just held Lestrade's hand, relishing in how rough it felt. He was aware of Lestrade's eyes burning into the side of his face, but Mycroft just stared at the table. His face was already scarlet, he knew, and he felt every troublesome emotion that he tried to shove down returning to the surface.

"I should probably get home-" Mycroft finally spoke, his eyes flicking back up towards Lestrade. Lestrade's face had, in that silent space of time, slowly started moving towards him. He realised with a strange pain in his heart that Lestrade had been leaning forward to _kiss _him, and Mycroft had messed it up. Lestrade paused in his movement, and he was _so close. _Mycroft could see the shine of sweat across his forehead, the slightest shadow of stubble, and how his eyes were pure brown. Not a speck of anything obscuring that gorgeous colour. More than anything, now, Mycroft felt the urge to lean over and press their lips together.

But, he didn't. He just stared at Lestrade with wide eyes and a flushed face.

"Oh! Right! Yeah, sorry." In one swift movement, Lestrade had leaned back in his seat. The space between them seemed too empty. "Would you like me to drive you, or…shit, no, wait, you don't like bikes."

Mycroft was mentally kicking himself at the same time that he was mentally hugging himself. He was mentally exhausted. On one hand, Lestrade had been planning to _kiss _him, and that was so entirely beautiful and fantastic Mycroft didn't know where to start. On the other hand, kissing Lestrade would finally be yielding to emotions. Painful ones. Stupid ones.

Which, really, didn't make any sense, considering what he was about to say next.

"Oh, but I really must get to Hyde Park." Mycroft told him with a faint smile. "And I must get over my silly fear sometime, don't you agree? Could I be so rude as to trouble you for a ride?"

In truth, he _did_ have to get to Hyde Park. Sherlock could only entertain himself for so long before he decided to get himself into trouble, and Mycroft had to go and fetch him. Besides, the idea of sitting on the back of a motorcycle with Lestrade was_ immensely _appealing. Perhaps his eagerness got the better of him, for Lestrade broke into a wide smile.

"That wouldn't be a problem at all, Myc. Come on, let's get going. Thanks for the coffee." Greg moved, getting up from his seat.

Of course, Mycroft didn't _really _have a fear of motorcycles. However, as he sat on the seat, staring at Lestrade rummaging through the side compartment, he couldn't help but feel a tad bit of unease. Finally, Lestrade straightened and pushed a helmet into his chest. He winked, and Mycroft's heart soared. "Can't have the future ruler of the world getting hurt, can we?" Noting Mycroft's anxiety, his joking smile quieted to something sympathetic. "It'll be all right, Mycroft. I'll go nice and slow for you."

The stupid double-meaning of those words sent Mycroft swooning again, and he clasped the helmet over his head to hide his blush. Damn it all. Damn Lestrade and his motorcycle.

Then Lestrade mounted his bike, and suddenly Mycroft was pressed against his back. He was wearing a leather jacket, and although his helmet entirely obscured his face, Mycroft felt that he had never been in a more attractive (or more enviable) position in his life.

At Lestrade's urging, Mycroft wrapped both arms around the man's middle. He pressed his cheek against the back of Lestrade's jacket. The smooth leather felt fantastic against his skin.

The actual starting up of the motorcycle did cause Mycroft to jump and Lestrade to laugh, then apologise. Before Mycroft could offer a witty retort, they were driving. Despite what Lestrade said, Mycroft personally thought that they were going much too fast to be necessary.

However, Mycroft wasn't scared. He was with Lestrade, who had been nothing but kind, good, and complimentary to him. He trusted him. That didn't mean that Mycroft wouldn't take advantage of this opportunity. Grasping Lestrade all the tighter (and feeling the tight muscles of his stomach), Mycroft shut his eyes. Suddenly, he didn't feel the wind whipping around his face, or hear the roar of the motorcycle, or smell the air of London. No, the only thing that mattered was Lestrade's smooth leather jacket, the reassuring thump-thump of his heartbeat, and the smell of his cologne. It was enchanting, and Mycroft wished for so many things at that moment, he couldn't even remember one.

In fact, he didn't even know that the motorcycle had stopped.

Lestrade let out a warm-hearted laugh and twisted around in his seat. "Come on, you little climber monkey. We're here, and you're crushing my ribs."

Flushing completely with embarrassment, Mycroft slid off the bike and handed the helmet over. "Thank you, Gregory. It really was quite enjoyable. I would love to repeat the experience again very soon." He commented, letting his fingers drag against the back of Lestrade's jacket. Lestrade smiled appreciatively at him.

It was funny, how obvious Lestrade's motives were. As Mycroft stood on the other side of Lestrade's motorbike, Lestrade appeared to be thinking, very intensely. Finally, he just took a breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Look. Do…do you want to go on a date sometime? We could go get something to eat, later." At Mycroft's undisguised staring, Lestrade blushed and continued. "I dunno. I just feel like we have a connection, and…er, I'm sorry, this sounds pathetic. I'm just going to go and…yeah."

Even though Mycroft had fully expected what Lestrade was going to say (his body language was _obvious), _he was still completely dumbstruck at the actual question. Shaking his head firmly, he leaned over and grasped Greg's arm. "No, I…I would love to, Gregory."


	9. Chapter 9

(( Hello, everyone! Hope you all had an enjoyable week. Here's the next chapter, a little dash of brotherly!lock for you all. Leave a comment if you like it, and see you next week!))

A _date! _

A date, a date, a date, a date, a date. _Datedatedatedate. _

Mycroft watched Lestrade sputter away into the distance and he felt his heart thud hard against his chest. It wasn't because of an oncoming anxiety attack, however – Mycroft Holmes was _excited. _Overwhelmed, yes, but excited more so. He was going on a date with one of the most _good _men in London, and nobody could ever ruin that.

It took his mind approximately two seconds to list all the ways it could have been a bad idea.

Yielding to emotion, certainly. A relationship was a delicate, sentimental thing. Mycroft was working hard just to keep Sherlock in a flat and moderately fed, and if he got into a relationship (_especially _since Lestrade thought he was living alone in a better part of London), that would disturb the cool, calm façade Mycroft had portrayed. Not to mention that Mycroft couldn't exactly leave work to go on dates, and couldn't spend the night over at Lestrade's flat because of Sherlock, and didn't have the money to pay on dates. He wasn't the most emotionally advanced of people, and his last relationship still kept him up at night. When looked at objectively, Mycroft should never have agreed to a date.

However.

Love, it seemed, had an alarming tendency to blind.

Mycroft was more excited than he had been in years.

His limp had died down to a dull feeling and he scanned Hyde Park for Sherlock. Oh, damn, he'd have to make another excuse to Sherlock again. Perhaps he would be going out to the doctor's, or his school. Yes, that might do it. And he would have to find something to keep Sherlock occupied. A book from the library should do it, really, especially if it were something on crime. Or pirates. Mycroft began to make plans to visit the library. Perhaps, for himself, he'd get one on the history of politics. Or, more pathetically, one of the trash romance novels that he hid under his pillow so Sherlock couldn't discover them. Sherlock would tease him so-

"_Aaggh!" _Mycroft fell forward as he felt a sudden, blunt pain right between his shoulder blades. Memories of the little assault came to him again, and Mycroft was struck with momentary terror. This was it, this the end, Mycroft was going to be killed on broad daylight. Sherlock would never see his older brother again, and perhaps he would come upon his poor, dear brother's body.

"_Got you!" _Sherlock nearly sang, and Mycroft moved with a groan to his side. There, swinging from the branch of a tree, kicking his feet back and forth. Mycroft immediately figured out what had happened – his younger brother had swung down from the branch and kicked him in his back. Although that certainly calmed down Mycroft's mind, he couldn't get himself to stop panicking. He was still breathing heavily, his clothing was soaked through with set, and he felt his vision narrow. A few full minutes passed before he heard Sherlock's voice, again. The tween had gotten down from the tree and was now crouched by Mycroft. He put one hand out and shoved his shoulder, asking him, "Fatcroft? Are you alright?"

"You're…you're…" _No. _Had to pull himself together, had to remain calm. Had to pretend like nothing was wrong. "You're twelve, Sherlock. That was rather childish of you. Don't do so again."

"Are you crying?" Sherlock leaned up on his toes to peer into Mycroft's eyes. With a scoff, Mycroft rubbed at his nose and shook his head.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's _spring, _Sherlock, it's just allergies. Now, it's getting late. We've got to get home." Mycroft winced at how authoritarian he seemed. It was an unchangeable progression, now – Mycroft was becoming the one in power. He was no longer the brother, but the father, the headmaster, and the doctor. "What have you been doing today?"

The question had two purposes. One, Mycroft was fully aware of his brother's tendency to get into trouble. Two, Mycroft wanted to make sure that Sherlock did _not _see Lestrade. They were two separate circles of his life, now, and he did not want them to mix. Although that was being highly presumptuous (they hadn't even been on a date, after all), Mycroft figured that it was better safe than sorry. After all, if they were to meet…well, Lestrade wouldn't stick around long enough to say 'goodbye', and Mycroft wouldn't blame him.

"I followed one of the Constables around for a little while." Sherlock commented, falling into formation beside Mycroft. "He's not really good at his job. He passed by a spot where a man had been murdered a few nights ago and his body taken away, and he didn't even _blink. _Honestly, I don't think the police will ever find the body."

Mycroft stiffened as Sherlock spoke. Yes, he was acutely aware of Sherlock's little habit of crime. He didn't approve, but who was he to say that Sherlock couldn't study it? Besides, if he forbid it, the young child would get some idea in his mind of running off to become a copper. Not that there was anything _wrong _with it (Mycroft's mind moved to Lestrade, again), but the thought of his little brother holding a gun was unthinkable. "I see. Do try to let them do their job, Sherlock, as poorly as they'll perform at it. Some of them are quite competent, you know. Crime is starting to decrease." _Though not in our neighborhood. _"And a few of them are quite likable."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. Earlier on, Mycroft had never been so pleasant towards law enforcement. If Sherlock ever had need of one, Mycroft had warned, by all means, go to him. However, make sure to give a fake name and address. Again, this was all to ensure that Sherlock wasn't taken away by him. And sent back to…_God forbid. _

They walked close together. Mycroft wanted to reach down and grasp Sherlock's hand as they crossed back into their neighborhood, but he didn't. They mainly walked in silence – though occasionally, Mycroft would catch Sherlock looking up at him oddly. He hated the strange, distrustful tension between them, lately. The solution to that was, of course, telling Sherlock about his boyfriend.

No.

"You can start your homework if you so desire. I think I may go see if we've any ice. My knee's holding up quite well, I think, but I don't want to test it."

"Work tomorrow?"

Ah, that was his out. After all, he needed a reason to be away from the flat for a few hours. Work seemed a good reason as any. "Yes, a half-shift. Later in the evening. I'll be gone for just a few hours, so you can't get up to anything mischievous by then. And , for God's sake, keep off the fire escape. You're going to fall and kill yourself."

Sherlock scowled and looked down at the floor. He collapsed back on the sofa, and as he did so, Mycroft caught his face in the good light. He had a slightly crooked scratch running down his neck. Sighing, Mycroft reached for the first-aid kit and got on his knees in front of him. _That _wasn't as painful as it could have been, now that he thought of it.

"You do realise that I'm not always going to be around?" Mycroft murmured under his breath, reaching for the disinfectant. "Someday, you're going to have to stop falling off trees or catching yourself on branches. It's not that enjoyable patching up your own wounds, you know. One day, I won't be around to make sure you're alright."

A momentary look of terror flashed in Sherlock's eyes, but he hid it. Quickly.

Immediately, a deep blooming guilt flowered in Mycroft's chest. He was giving this lecture to a _twelve-year-old. _And yet, Mycroft was twenty-four. The thought of waiting until Sherlock was eighteen and on his own worried him a bit. God, he'd be _thirty _before he could start worrying for himself.

Mycroft realised, right then, that he hated this life. Hated living in the flat, hated working this way, hated not being able to provide enough for Sherlock, hated having to pretend like everything was fine, hated having to not think about certain subjects, hated being afraid, hated being guilty, hated being depressed. Mycroft _hated. _

"You were just saying the other day that you weren't ever going to leave. That you'd be the one to take care of me, and nobody could pull you away. What happened to _that?" _Sherlock drawled out, wincing and crying out lightly as Mycroft disinfected the scratch. "Now it's 'Oh, best learn how to live on your own, Lockie, because God knows I'll be dumping you at the orphanage soon.'"

"We're _not _orphans." Mycroft snapped at him, leaning back just so that he could look into his eyes. "I will stay as long as you need me, Sherlock. I am your brother, and my duty is to take care of you. When you were born, I promised myself that I would never let any harm come to you. No matter what trouble you got in, no matter how badly you turned out, no matter what you ever said or did."

It was hard to think that Mycroft had been Sherlock's age when Sherlock was born. He hadn't been a spoiled twelve-year-old, though he couldn't particularly remember wanting for anything. Granted, he didn't see his parents often enough to _ask. _He had been independent, intelligent, and trustworthy. In short, he had been so different than Sherlock. His mind flashed back to seeing Sherlock for the first time.

The hospital room had been white and cold. Mycroft was in a suit, and he just wandered down the hallway. There hadn't been anyone with him. It had just been Mycroft, a chubby redhead who strode down the halls like he knew exactly where he was going. In truth, he didn't, and that was probably why it took him so long to find his baby brother's room.

Mummy was asleep. Mycroft didn't understand until later that the birth had been quite troublesome for her, and she had probably been exhausted. He understood that, of course. What he never understood was Father's expression. _Bored _wasn't the right word, but…disinterested was another. Anxious to get to another meeting, to just keep _moving _onto the next thing. The birth of his second child seemed as interesting to him as a sunny day in London. Certainly out of the ordinary, but nothing to whoop and holler about.

He could only hope that Father had been just a _tad _more interested at his own birth.

So, Father had led him down a series of hallways before he found where his brother was being kept. Born a bit smaller than the usual, Mycroft had regarded him with wonder. He wanted to reach down and touch the thin black hair that already covered his head. Those bright blue eyes were Mummy's. His own were from his father. That _black hair, _though, was completely odd. Mummy was blonde, and Father was ginger, so the black hair seemed like a genetic anomaly.

How fitting. Sherlock was an anomaly.  
_I shouldn't think about that anymore, _Mycroft told himself.

He was brought back to the current day with another loud whine.

"_Stop_! That's enough disinfectant! Mycroft, it was a _branch, _not a _needle!" _Sherlock hissed at him, pushing his hand away. "Are you even listening to me? I said that if we're not orphans, then where are Mum and Da? They're not exactly knocking on the door to ask us how we've been. How _precious ickle Fatcroft _has been doing, rather."

Mycroft's mouth tightened. "And the conversation was going so well, Sherlock. You know I'm not telling you that." He reached for a bandage and stuck it on Sherlock's neck. It was pirate-themed. They were a precious commodity, Mycroft mused to himself. Always had to keep first-aid supplies around, but when he had come across the pirate-themed bandages…well, he just couldn't step away. "There. Captain Holmes, ready for duty. Arrgh." He chuckled out, standing up.

"_Stop _it. I'm _not _a baby, and I don't want to be a pirate anymore." Sherlock protested, but, as he ducked his head, Mycroft caught the faintest glimpse of a smile. "I'm almost thirteen."

God help him, he was. His birthday was…what, a month away? It would be their first party in the horrid flat. Mycroft thought about his meager finances, and wondered if he could perhaps get him a present. Just something small. Something sentimental. Who knew?

Then they were both startled by a loud ring, and Mycroft glanced at his phone. Although he expected it to be Gregory, it wasn't. It was a number he hadn't seen in a good amount of time. "Apologies. I must take this."

He stepped out to the kitchen and leaned against the wall. "Hello? This is Mycroft Holmes. How may I help you?"

A light, cheery voice answered him. It was female. "Hello, Mr. Holmes! This is just about your interview the previous week. We just wanted to let you know that we'd like to bring you back in as soon as possible for a second. Could we figure out a time and place?"

The interview last week.

It had been as a glorified secretary, of course, but it was _something. _And it worked in a politician's office, besides. Mycroft had wanted it so badly, and not all because the pay was generous. Mycroft felt like he couldn't breathe, like his chest was tight, but it was for such a _good _reason that Mycroft couldn't complain.

"_T_-tomorrow." Mycroft stuttered out over the phone, swallowing and shutting his eyes. "Would tomorrow work? Early in the morning, perhaps, o-or-"

The woman cut him off. "We will see you tomorrow at 8 AM, in that case! Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes!"

She hung up.

So. Tomorrow was his first serious interview, where he had an actual shot at getting the job. That was taking into account, of course, that they hadn't called him back as a joke (they wouldn't do that, do they?). Tomorrow was also his first serious date in…well, discounting _the boyfriend, _ever. Mycroft's heart beat loudly in his chest as he tottered back into the living room on shaky legs.

"What's wrong, Fatcroft? You look like you're going to throw up."


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft hadn't slept.

Of course he hadn't slept. After he had told Sherlock the good news and he had sent Sherlock to bed, he had just collapsed on the sofa. From there, he had proceeded to just stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night. There were no panic attacks, thank heavens - but he had just worried himself to near-death for hours on end.

In the end, he had to tell himself that the job interview was more important. Getting that job meant more money, and more opportunities for advancement. Perhaps he could get Sherlock out of this godawful flat they were living in, perhaps he could make sure Sherlock ate a proper meal every day. That would be heavenly. Lately he had been feeling like he hadn't adequately taking care of Sherlock, that perhaps he was better off where he had come from, back where _the night and the thing_

No.

No, Sherlock was more loved and better off here.

Still, that job interview would be everything.

If the interview was more important, than why on Earth was Mycroft more excited for the date?

The thought of actually being with Lestrade, snuggling up next to him in some booth in some diner somewhere in London, sharing flirty jokes, laying his head on the policeman's shoulder – it filled the emotionless man with such energy that he momentarily forgot that he was supposed to be remaining indifferent to the softer emotions of life. The best part of all was that he didn't have to hide his excitement from Sherlock – Sherlock just thought that he was excited for the interview. He went about his morning, humming and sprucing himself up a bit more than usual.

Sherlock didn't need to use the bathroom, thank heavens. Mycroft made sure that he had brushed his teeth and had brushed his hair, and then had sent him along to the kitchen to make breakfast. He did so with a song in his heart and a whistle in his tongue. Just minutes later, he was joining Sherlock in the kitchen.

"What are you planning on doing today, Sherlock? Please try not to get into trouble. If you must leave, only do so when absolutely necessary and do _not _get in trouble in the neighborhood. I would much rather you entertain yourself around here, but I fear that may be too much to ask." Mycroft babbled on and on as he spread butter on toast, and then placed it in front of Sherlock. Sherlock looked at it distastefully before biting into it with a grim expression.

Speaking around his toast (which made Mycroft wince and chide him for doing so), Sherlock shook his head. "Just staying inside today. I nicked the newspaper from the bin-" That brought cries of 'Sherlock, that's _unsanitary!' _from Mycroft' – "And I'm going to look through the crime section. See what I can deduce. "

That was something, certainly. Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about Sherlock's fascination with crime, but it certainly kept the boy occupied. Either way, it wasn't something that Mycroft had to deal with today. Sighing, he pushed his toast away from him and stood.

It was the only suit he owned. And, yes, he had taken it from the old house. It was…well, fantastic. The best money could buy, really, which was why Mycroft was so anxious about wearing it out of the house. If things really became tight, Mycroft figured, he could always sell it and get a pretty (although temporary) penny.

He had slicked his hair back and styled it. As he looked in the mirror, he still wasn't satisfied. The suit fit him poorly, since he had lost so much weight after leaving. Still, if Mycroft stood a certain way, it was really quite difficult to tell – or perhaps that was only in Mycroft's mind. He continued alternatively slouching and straightening his shoulders in the mirror when he felt two tiny arms wrap around his waist from behind.

The words were said in a rush.

"_IhopeyougetthejobandIhopethattheextramoneymakesyou happyandIhopeyou'rehappieringeneral." _Sherlock mumbled into his shoulder blades, and Mycroft broke into a brilliant smile. It was the sweetest thing that he had ever heard Sherlock say, and Mycroft was _excited. _This day was turning out wonderfully. Turning around, he gave Sherlock a familial peck on the top of the head and left.

A half hour of walking later, Mycroft was sitting in a room that reminded him sickeningly of the Holmes Manor. He had started sweating hours ago, although Mycroft attributed that to nervousness and not his little episodes striking up again. He wouldn't _let _them flare up. This was going to be a perfect goddamn day, Mycroft vowed, and he wasn't going to end it in a sobbing mess on the floor. He put his hands on the opposite sides of the chair, and put up his calm and cool face – one that he had perfected over the years, and even more so during the last few months.

That was why he was surprised when a girl who looked no older than eighteen walked in and sat at the large desk in front of him. Mycroft tilted his head to the side.

"Hello. Are you Mycroft Holmes?" The girl asked him, shuffling through a few papers on the desk. She was pretty enough, Mycroft supposed. A slightly olive complexion, dark hair, and a Blackberry in between her fingers. She looked a tad bored with the entire situation, though Mycroft couldn't suppose he would blame her on that point.

"I am. May I ask who you are?" Mycroft asked with corresponding politeness, folding his hands politely in his lap.

It was funny, really. They were both externally polite – small smiles, folded limbs, and a comfortable attitude. However, Mycroft couldn't help but feel the undercurrent of surprise that ran through the room, and he knew that they were both thinking the exact same thing.

_I didn't expect someone like _you.

"Let's see, who shall I be today?" The girl chuckled, leaning back in the chair and shuffling through a few papers. "I was Helen last week. From the Greek myth, you know. I don't think it quite suited me. Besides, I've always rathered beauty over brains. Ah…let's see. Athena would draw too much attention, and I don't think it's quite smooth on the tongue. How do you feel about _Anthea?" _

What a strange woman.

"Are you that high-in-command, that you must keep your name private?" Mycroft asked curiously, taking the girl in an entirely new light. Only eighteen, and enough to warrant security clearance? Impressive.

She gave a light laugh. "No, that's a few years down the line. I'm not involved in top secret activity, Mr. Holmes, but I'm a bit of a networking expert between our lovely gentlemen here. The PM has a meeting with the ambassador of Belgium at four, there's a discussion about fracking and environmental concerns at five…I plan and coordinate that sort of thing. A secretary, in other words, though I'm allowed to travel just a bit more."

Mycroft was surprised, and he found a light (though tightly controlled) smile on his face. "How fascinating. May I ask, then, why _you're_ interviewing me?" He tried to keep his question as inoffensive as possible. Quite impressive, that such a young woman would be in control of so much, but what grounds had she to conduct an interview?

"What, did you expect a gentleman over the age of seventy and has enough bigotry to anger an entire nation?" Anthea asked, letting out a slight chuckle. "No, no. Only a few people here have been alerted of your presence, Mr. Holmes. We're quite interested in you, and yours truly was put on the case of researching if you were qualified for the job." She paused, then, to tap a few letters into her phone. "I have to say that what I found was immensely interesting."

That was where Mycroft felt his breath stop. His hands clutched against the sides of the chair a bit tighter; a cold sweat broke out on his neck. He tried to stop the desperate panic, and outwardly, he was fine. His face didn't change a degree. Only someone with a magnifying glass could see that, on the inside, Mycroft was drowning. No, he only quirked an eyebrow and asked, "Oh?"

"Of course. Your father is incredibly well-known – or, rather, _was. _He retired but a few months ago. He actually didn't give a reason, but…ah, there's always secrets in this sort of business. Don't you agree? Regardless, we actually had your name on file prior. Mycroft Holmes, an intern here some months prior. Again, left without a reason." Anthea drawled, flipping open a file in front of her. "Here's where it gets rather interesting. Here's a note that says Mycroft Holmes applied for an apartment –nothing unusual. You are twenty-four, after all. But there is a police report, here, that says on the night of –"

Mycroft raised one hand to her. "I think that will be quite enough, miss. I always hate repetition. You know, and I know, and I doubt that nobody else need know. Will my current living conditions and the fact that I have a dependent hamper my potential employment? If so, I must take my leave. I would enjoy working here – surely you've seen my taxes. I've always wanted to get into the business of what my father did-" _That night, coming home, upset, hearing Mother's and Father's voices through the garden door_. "And the money surely wouldn't harm. However, I will always care for my little sibling."

Anthea's lips quirked up in a polite smile. "You may not want to mention that around here. Caring, it seems, has gone remarkably out of style. You shan't find a man who says that he loves his wife, or a father who thinks his child as anything more than a political pawn. Whether they think differently in private, or are sociopaths through and through, I can't say. I've only been around for half a year." She placed the Blackberry to the side. "Regardless, your sibling will not be a problem. We will work around your schedule. After all, you won't be so high up. You'll do paperwork, monitor conferences, sort out an economic crisis or two. Not overly difficult. Certainly not with your resume."

Mycroft nodded, feeling his palms relax on the chair. That put his mind somewhat at ease. "I see. Very well. May I ask why I have been called here, then? What questions am I to ask, or what tasks should I do?"

Anthea looked at him quizzically before collapsing into laughter that made her seem several years younger. "Mr. Holmes, you've already _received _the job. Your father's name would have gotten you that, even if you had been a barely literate monkey."

Mycroft looked at her in utter shock. Even though he had made a habit of hiding his emotions nowadays, this piece of news was such a bombshell that Mycroft could only look at her dim-wittedly. A few moments passed before she cleared her throat and tilted her head to the side. "I'm here today to give you your assignments, Mr. Holmes. Nothing too difficult, I assure you – just some international issues to read up on, biographies, things like that. You'll be expected to get them done before next week, of course."

"Yes, I see. Would you become my boss, then?" A pause. A counter-statement. "Not that I'm opposed to such a measure, of course – I've found that it's useless to judge maturity and aptitude based on age."

Anthea gave a shake of her head. "No. I'll be your personal assistant, Mr. Holmes."

"Personal assistant? What for? I cannot imagine my job will be too rigorous, with paperwork and such."

"No, it will not, but it has a large potential for growth. Very soon, you _will _be needing a PA. Or two or three, in fact, but I assure you that I'm very capable." Anthea paused, placing papers in front of her again. "Here's my resume, should you wish to read over it. I'm trained in emergency medical treatment, several different types of martial arts, and hostage negotiation."

Mycroft was stunned. In the matter of minutes, his life had just became a James Bond film. It was absolutely shocking – and yet Mycroft was fond of this Anthea. Perhaps she could become an ally, or a confidante. She did know the worst of his life, after all – and that was something Mycroft would not share willingly. He found himself smiling at her. She took it negatively.

"I will warn you that, should you make a move against me, I will not hesitate to use self-defense and then have you swiftly removed. You're not high up the ladder, yet, it won't be that hard." Anthea commented swiftly, her voice sharp. And…weary, somehow, as if she had given the speech before.

"No, no." Mycroft shook his head, raising one hand up and placing his palm towards her. "I would never do such a thing. You've read over my history, Anthea, and I promise you that there's no record of violence in it." She raised an eyebrow. "Except on one occasion, which I'm sure you can overlook. If it's towards the sexual advances you're worried about, again, have no worry. You have my files. Surely you can deduce my orientation."

Anthea's eyes scanned over the files again, and she nodded. No emotion showed on her face. "Ah, yes, of course, but it's not quite politically correct to assume nowadays." There was a small twinkle in her eye, there. "Of course I don't mind your homosexuality, Mr. Holmes. I only warn you that you may want to be a tad secretive of it. Many men here are open-minded, but, should you ever achieve an elected position, they will use it against you. Unfortunately."

Nodding, Mycroft felt another bit of worry enter into him. Although being 'out of the closet' had never been the worst of his problems…well, it had been a problem, indeed. If he was supposed to be entering into a relationship with Gregory Lestrade (and, given that he was now nearing the time for their date, he should be), that might prove difficult. But he would, as they say, cross that bridge when he came to it. Anthea began to speak to him again, this time in a dismissive voice. "I think that'll be that, Mr. Holmes. I cordially welcome you to this office."

"Wait!" Mycroft found himself saying, standing up as she did. "May I inquire as to my pay? Again, you've seen my financial records. It's a matter of importance."

When Anthea gave the figure, Mycroft took a step back and held onto the back of the chair. The number was exactly triple what he had made at the coffee shop. It was enough to…well, it was enough to do everything. Feed Sherlock every day, move into a nicer flat, perhaps even take Lestrade out on a date every now and then. It made him happy, ecstatic, and he moved forward to shake her hand enthusiastically.

They parted ways soon after. Mycroft enjoyed how she didn't betray much besides professional emotion, and yet how she seemed to sympathize with his dilemmas. He couldn't help but walk with a whistle on his tongue, making his way towards the café where he and Lestrade had agreed to meet.

Already, he had a job. Not his dream job, not _quite yet, _but so close that it didn't really matter, in the end. It would solve so much of his problems, and then he could focus on others. Perhaps, he hypothesized, should he get Sherlock into a more respectable living condition, and told him to pull together his manners a tad…he would tell Lestrade. That revelation made him so entirely happy.

He hadn't changed from his suit. Hadn't the time, and frankly, he really wanted to see Lestrade's face when he saw Mycroft's attire. He _wanted _to impress Lestrade, badly, even though he had no real reason for it. All sentiment, and therefore all stupid, but god _damn _did Mycroft want to see Lestrade's face light up.

_He had a job, he had a job, he had an actual, real, well-paying job. Everything would be alright. _

That flowed in his head, like a mantra, until he reached the café. It was a small thing, not unlike the coffee shop where he worked at. He had just a little bit of money on him – money which, frankly, he should have been saving for bills. It was his stupid pride picking up again, but Mycroft didn't want to force Lestrade to pay. It would be enormously nice of him to, but Lestrade was just a little better-off than he was ( as far as Mycroft knew, anyway).

He wasn't the first one there, and oh, how he wished he could have taken a photo of Lestrade's face.

It was like a romantic movie, really.

Lestrade's eyes had been searching the room quizzically, and then they had fallen upon Mycroft. His entire face had lit up. A goofy smile, both doggy and sweet, stretched from ear to ear and he rose from his seat to go and see Mycroft. When he finally stopped in front of him, he raised one arm and squeezed Mycroft's shoulder softly. Neither spoke for a few moments, in hope that the other was just as speechless as they were.

Oh, Lestrade looked _lovely. _He had his leather jacket thrown on top of his work clothes, and Mycroft could catch a glimpse of that devilish motorbike helmet on the seat. His hair was askew, he looked tired, and Mycroft thought that it was the most beautiful face he had seen all day.

"Wow. Didn't know I was taking a celebrity out on a date, My." The pet name rolled off his tongue adorably, and Mycroft could have melted in front of him. "Can I ask what's with the penguin suit? Not that I'm complaining, mind."

There had been a time, perhaps when he first met Lestrade, where he would have tried his damnedest not to show emotion in front of him. Not to let himself feel emotion in front of him. Now, he felt that Lestrade was a separate part of his life. A release, in so many words – in front of him, although he hadn't told him everything, Mycroft could be a regular young man.

He shook his head and gave a shy smile. "Ah, no. A job interview – well, in so many words. I received the job." If that was Sherlock who had asked, Mycroft would have left it at that. A child didn't need to know how much he made, or how happy he was, or how wonderful the job seemed. But Lestrade was different, and Mycroft needed to gush. "And, oh, Gregory, it pays fantastically well. Far more than what I made at the coffee shop. It's the most wonderful thing that could happen, and I am so ecstatic about it."

Lestrade listened to him enthusiastically, and together, they didn't pay any mind to the rest of the café. "My, that's absolutely brilliant. I'm so happy for you – Jesus, that's absolutely fantastic. Something you like doing, yeah? Good for you, My . You deserve it. This is _fantastic!" _With that, Greg stepped forward, and suddenly, Mycroft was crushed against his chest.

The man hugged like a bear. Of course, it probably helped that the man easily weighed a few stone more than he did. Mycroft couldn't have moved if he wanted to – not that he wanted to, at all. This was even closer than he had been on the motorbike. He was nearly molded against the man's form, and he was nearly overwhelmed by the powerful cologne Lestrade had put on before the date. Mycroft was taken aback at the startling realization that Lestrade had put that on _for him, _had prepared for a date and had worried over it and had likely looked forward to it _for him. _

Lestrade leaned back, both hands clutching Mycroft's upper arms. He grinned at him, widely, and Mycroft wondered if they, then, were going to kiss. However, Lestrade regretfully released his shoulders and they went back to their seat. As they did, Lestrade said over his shoulder, "Look, since we're celebrating some good news, why don't you let me pay for the date?"

Mycroft could barely respond for a second. He was so taken aback with the cologne, with what Lestrade had just said and, of course, the initial shock of receiving a well-paying job. For a moment, he could only nod and smile stupidly at him. When Lestrade grabbed his hand from his side of the table, that didn't help. Lestrade finally just chuckled at him.

"Still in shock, eh? No harm in that. I know when I first got accepted to this Yarder position I'm in – well, I could barely talk to anyone for _ages. _Finally just talked to my mum for about an hour about it, and I could barely sleep that night. It's fantastic, getting a job you've wanted like mad, isn't it?" At that, Lestrade gave his hand a squeeze. "You're going to be brilliant at it, My. I know you are."

Mycroft let out a startled grunt of some sort, and he finally just ducked his head slightly. "I…thank you, Gregory, truly. I'm afraid I'm…I'm still in shock, you see. You may want to speak for a little while. I promise I shall partake in the conversation later."

Lestrade let out a sharp, barking laugh at that. "You're an utter sweetheart, Mycroft, really. I'm glad for you – I know how it is. A young bloke on your own, trying to make your way. When I first got out of Uni…well, hell. I had just cleaned up a few years prior, and my grades weren't the best. I didn't know what I was going to do." Again, a small laugh. "I'm not proud of it, but I slept around a tad in Uni and secondary school. Figured I could always make a living with _that, _if I had to."

By that point, Mycroft had recovered and was now looking at Lestrade with a raised eyebrow and a confused look. He broke into laughter again. "Jesus, Mycroft, I'm kidding. I'd never do that. It'd put my dear old Mum into an early grave, if I did. Believe me, I got raised well. Received a 'You've got to respect yourself and others' speech every other week."

Mycroft was sure as hell not going to mention that he, himself, had seriously pondered the practice and had only rejected it for Sherlock's sake. He ran his finger around the water glass when it all suddenly came to him. He was on a date with the most _good _man he had met in ages. He had a job that would pay extremely well. Sherlock, he hoped, was taking care of himself. His face split into a wide smile, and his eyes flit over Lestrade's figure again.

Suddenly, he was filled with the extreme desire to impress him.

"You had to tackle a man to the ground today, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, fluttering his eyelids a bit. God, the art of impressing others had not been lost on him. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft didn't need a stage – he needed a press conference. "How impressive. I had no idea that I was dating such a brave man."

"Oi, I'm not your boss, My. You can't just butter me up like that." Greg teased him lightly. He let go of Mycroft's wrist, which initially alarmed him. However, in the next second, he had leaned forward and cupped Mycroft's cheek. "And I'm just doing my duty, sweetheart." He insisted.

Mycroft's thoughts were momentarily scrambled by it all. However, his hand reached up to cover Lestrade's comfortably as the man continued.

"Nothing too bad. Just a man trying to rob some little store. Well, he wasn't a man. None of them are, really, but this one was just a kid. That's the way it goes, yeah? Kid grows up in some bad neighborhood, no parents about. Isn't any way to grow up. Poor thing. He tried to pull a gun on my back-up – Sally, her name is, lovely young thing – and I wasn't having it. Got him to the ground without hurting him too badly, and we got him in." As Greg talked, Mycroft was drawn into his eyes – bright and brown, lighting up whenever he got to a crucial point. He knew he was smitten. Hopelessly, foolishly, stupidly, and he knew that he couldn't last for long.

One day, and he didn't know how far away that day was, Mycroft would slip. He would tell Lestrade about Sherlock, and about the night, and the thing, and his previous boyfriend. If Lestrade was a sincerely good man (by this point, Mycroft had no doubts), then he would stay. But would he stay happily, or out of a sense of obligation? Because he didn't want to leave Mycroft alone? He didn't know.

He barely knew Lestrade, and yet, the possibility of losing him (or worse, having him stay around out of a sense of duty) scared him to death.

Their food came around then, and Lestrade started to eat heartily. Mycroft had just ordered a small salad, and he looked at it despondently. He had never hated eating healthily (although, back when he lived with his parents, he never had much of a reason to), but eating in front of others made him nervous. Not to mention there was the depressing realization that he hadn't left anything for Sherlock to eat.

"How's it going there, rabbit food?" Lestrade said, and the words would have been cruel, if it wasn't Lestrade who had said them. He said it with such kindness, such lightness, such teasing foolishness, that Mycroft couldn't help but smile and start eating.

"Quite well, Gregory. Thank you so much for this. I haven't dated in _ages, _and…well, I think you're rather remarkable. I cannot imagine why _you're _single, you know." Mycroft attempted a teasing tone. "You're everything a person would be looking for, aren't you? Quite handsome, a true gentleman, a job that can only be admired…you're utterly perfect. Are you sure you're not hiding a wife and children somewhere? Perhaps a few bodies in your closet?"

"I shouldn't think so, My. No secret family, no bodies. Have a little faith, would you?" Lestrade took a sip of his water and leaned back on the chair. "I don't know. Like I said, I was a bit of a punk when I was younger. I couldn't keep a relationship like that, yeah? And, during the last few years of Uni…well, the last person I dated was two years ago. Wonderful girl, really. Awfully sweet. It just didn't work out, in the end. She wanted to travel, explore the world, never stay in one place for more than a year. And me…" He shrugged his shoulders. "I just love London. Born and raised here, I have my sisters and Mum in the country. I couldn't ever imagine wanting to leave. At least, nothing longer than a holiday."

"I quite understand. There's something magical about London, don't you agree? My ideal job would have me travelling, of course, but only because politics requires it to be so. However, I would always love to return here." Mycroft commented, leaning forward on his palm as he chewed the greens.

"So, since we're on the topic of exes on the first date, how did your last one go?"

Oh, _hell. _

Mycroft shook his head and let out a shaky breath. Lestrade's eyes immediately flashed panic – this wasn't a conversation he should have strayed into. However, Mycroft spoke before Lestrade could.

"Ah, yes. Just a few months ago, really. A charming gentleman, when I first met him. We had been dating for some years – and I was a horribly ugly child, Gregory, you must understand. I thought that I had found the most perfect man. And then…well, we broke up." That was shortening a very long and painful story ( and completely eliminating what had happened after ). "I moved out of my parents' home just a few days after."

"Aw, hell. I'm sorry, My." Lestrade told him, frowning deeply. He cupped Mycroft's cheek again and pulled his chin up just slightly, so that the brown eyes could peer into his. "I'm glad you've taken a chance with me, though. You know that? I'm very, very happy."

The date continued. They chatted, about topics both personal and superficial, and by the time they got up to leave, it was setting dusk. Lestrade paid (despite Mycroft's protests), and they exited. It was dark and warm outside, and Mycroft tugged his suit jacket tighter.

Before Lestrade could offer a ride, Mycroft shook his head. "I think I'll be getting home on my own, Gregory. I need to stop somewhere, quickly, and then I'll just make my way-"

Strong hands landed on his shoulders, and spun him around. Usually, such an abrupt and quick action would have sent him spiraling downwards mentally, but the hands were so strong and soft. Lestrade had spun him around, and Mycroft looked up into those bright brown eyes questioningly.

Lestrade leaned forward and kissed him.

Mycroft's hands, which had previously been pinned to his chest, moved underneath Lestrade's jacket and around his shirt. Lestrade's hands were on either sides of his face, holding him close. He could feel the slight stubble on Lestrade's chin, he could smell the cologne on his neck, could taste the inside of his mouth. It was a warm, intimate, sentimental moment, and any thoughts of panicking were miles away. For a full minute, Mycroft Holmes was just twenty-four, had went on a spectacular date, and was now kissing (and being kissed) by the most wonderful man in London.

They both separated, and Mycroft smiled breathlessly.


	11. Chapter 11

When Lestrade pulled away from the kiss, Mycroft just stared at him with wide eyes. All witticisms and clever remarks left him, and for a second, he was twenty-four. Twenty-four and getting over a bad break-up, at that. Still, _the boyfriend _didn't seem to matter much now. Not when compared to Lestrade's goofy smile and bright brown eyes. It made Mycroft's heart melt in the most pathetic of ways.

"So, uh. Did you feel sparks, or was that just me?" Lestrade asked with a wink, although Mycroft's eyes and keen observational sense told him that Lestrade was nervous. Lestrade was nervous about what he had just done and how Mycroft would react over it. Somehow, that made it all the more sweet, and Mycroft's lips folded into a smile.

He reached forward and took Lestrade's hand. It seemed to fit comfortably with his. "It was…wonderful, yes. Absolutely wonderful. The entire event, Gregory, the entire date, I haven't had a night like that in ages." Although his voice was soft and hesitating, Lestrade's face split into a massive smile.

Mycroft took advantage of the opportunity again.

Leaning up, he pressed a softer kiss to Lestrade's lips. It was gentler and a lot more relaxed than Lestrade's random, chaotic kiss from earlier. Still just as perfect, in Mycroft's opinion. When they pulled away again, Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "Want me to accompany my date home? It's a tad dark out, sweetheart."

_Oh, _sweetheart. Mycroft fancied that he had a rather comprehensive use of the English vocabulary, and he knew of no sweeter word. He didn't ordinarily like pet names – his previous boyfriend frequented them – but the _way _Lestrade said them made him feel stronger.

It took a few moments for the request to process, and then his _real _life (oh, Mycroft was already starting to refer to it as his _other _life – not a good sign) came to him. Sherlock was probably waiting. "No, I…I can make it on my own. It's not _that _late, Gregory, and I can quite manage." His voice, previously brisk and professional, took a more sentimental tone. "I hope I shall be seeing you again?"

"Couldn't keep me away." Lestrade made a crossing motion over his heart and grinned at him. "It'll be like that odd scene in _Romeo and Juliet, _aye? You'll be hanging out your window, saying 'Wherefore art thou, Romeo?'"

"Oh?" Mycroft asked whimsically. "And will I end up drinking poison and you stabbing yourself in the heart, also?"

If his question took an ominous tone, Lestrade didn't comment on it.

"Only _after _I get exiled from London, lovey." Lestrade teased him, poking a finger into his ribs. "I have to leave. Work tomorrow, you know. You sure you don't want a ride? I can take you out on the bike."

That was utterly tempting, but Mycroft had to decline. They both shared one more kiss, and then they departed.

The walk back home really put the situation into perspective. He walked home that night with a boyfriend and a job, and he couldn't believe it. A few months earlier, he had been a pompous spoiled brat with a secret and a good amount of self-importance. Now? He had a home, he was taking care of his brother, he had a good job, and he had a lovely boyfriend. Life was as sweet as Mycroft's tooth.

"Where've you _been?" _Sherlock asked as Mycroft walked into the flat. Mycroft had been in such a state of self-examination that he hadn't blinked twice at walking around his neighborhood at night – despite the various calls he was certain were thrown at him. "You said you had an _interview _and then a shift, and now it's nearly – it's late. What've you been _doing?" _

"The interview and the shift ran a little longer than expected. You should be in bed by now." Mycroft spoke, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up. Sherlock was already in his pyjamas, which had several odd stains all over the fabric. The troublesome little prat. "Go to bed, will you? It's late, and you have school in the morning."

"That's not _fair!" _Sherlock cried out, gazing up at Mycroft. His entire frame had a sense of uncertainty – Mycroft seemed happy and light, and Mycroft was rarely happy and light. "Did you…how did you do? With the interview?"

Mycroft stepped forward and pressed a kiss to the matted tangle of curls. "I will have a new job in the next few days. Now, go to bed."

And Sherlock did.

…

The following weeks were some of the happiest in Mycroft's life, so far. His job was time-consuming, frustrating, and liable to give him a heart attack someday- but he loved every minute of it. He argued, he debated, he consulted, he impressed, and soon, Mycroft was in charge of a rather large amount of work. As his work load increased, he found a confidante and a companion in Anthea – she had even confided in him her real name, and Mycroft had confided in her about all manner of things – namely, Lestrade.

The pay was a godsend. A miracle, it seemed like. Suddenly, Mycroft was able to cook at home every night of the week and able to put a little bit aside for a new flat one of these days. Sherlock gained at least a quarter of a stone, and that was enough. New clothes were gotten for him. They weren't rich by any standards, but they were no longer dirt-poor.

He had gone on another date with his _boyfriend. _

The guilt was slowly starting to get to him, of course. Mycroft felt the burning need to tell Lestrade about his entire life, from birth to _the night _to the fact that he was financially supporting his little brother. He slowly started to make little promises to himself – when he got a nicer flat, when Sherlock matured, when he and Lestrade were a bit more permanent. In making those promises, nothing would get done, but they made Mycroft feel better.

They had gone out to see a film. Mycroft had hardly remembered what it had been on –no, he had been consumed with Lestrade's arm placed heavily around his shoulders. Occasionally he would lean over and press a kiss against his cheek, and Mycroft's head would fall upon him. The darkness and intimateness of it all had made Mycroft dizzy.

Either way, he couldn't always be focusing on his boyfriend like some obsessed child. Firstly, Sherlock's birthday was coming up. Thirteen years of age, and by God if Mycroft hoped he would make it for another thirteen. He had gotten him something. Small, admittedly, but Sherlock's last birthday had been attended by the nanny and Mycroft. That was all.

At that moment, he was working in his office. Anthea had disappeared to get coffee some time ago, and Mycroft knew that his shift was almost over. More money to be carefully divided and invested. Mycroft Holmes knew the power of money, and he knew not to fool with it.

"Your boyfriend is here, sir. For the purposes of keeping attention away, I've told everyone that he's looking into a crime involving the government." Anthea murmured dully, slipping back into the room. "They've all retreated into their offices in fear. You're very welcome."

It was still a bit shocking, the lengths Anthea was willing to go for him.

Lestrade came into the office some time later, a small grin on his face. "Hey. Sorry for the interruption – you might've been busy – but I just wanted to say and your phone's off – " He seemed nervous, overly so, and Mycroft couldn't help but laugh at him. It was dry and pompous – after all, Mycroft was wearing his politician mask.

"Sorry. It's just that you look so…bloody official." Lestrade admitted, crossing over and running his fingers across his desk. "I mean, you always have, but the office just sort of cinches the deal. Yeah?"

"I assure you, it is entirely useless. I could do the same amount of work in a broom closet." Mycroft insisted, placing his papers to the side. "May I ask what brings you here, Gregory?"

"Just wondering if you were free tonight." Lestrade asked him. Even after Mycroft had consoled him, he still seemed nervous. Mycroft realised that Lestrade was no longer put-off by the office, but uncertain of what he was going to ask. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over. I'd make dinner." His voice seemed to soften by a decibel or two. "Stay over, if you'd like?"

Oh. It was their third date. Wasn't that the signal for…?

Oh, hell. Oh, God. Sex and all relating matters had completely fled Mycroft's mind the moment he moved out. Well, really, the moment his _boyfriend _had broken up with him. He hadn't had much time to spend on the subject. Although he had no doubts that Lestrade would be completely fine if Mycroft told him that he would rather not, or if he'd rather just come over for dinner, Mycroft still felt clawing fear at his gut.

And it wasn't just sex, either. Lestrade was inviting him in to his person life. His flat. Mycroft had deduced a good amount of what Lestrade's flat looked like – he cooked right next to a phone and the small dining area was just a little ways from that. One slightly broken-in sofa, a telly, a double bed. However, he had no idea of what it properly looked like, and Mycroft was touched at such a sentimental gesture. They were becoming more serious, and even if Lestrade wasn't offering up his physical person, he was offering something much more.

It wasn't that Mycroft didn't want to. Of course not. Over the admittedly small time they had spent together, Mycroft had begun to see Lestrade as a rounded individual. Yes, he had his faults – he was an absolute barbarian at times and quite dim on certain topics. Despite those, Mycroft knew that he was one of the few good people left in the world. He was loving, kind, sweet, warm. Everything that Mycroft could ever want, and unless he was hiding a corpse in the closet, Mycroft thought the world of him.

No, he was hesitant only as other people who had experienced a previous bad relationship are hesitant – they were frightened, of course, of it happening again. Mycroft fancied himself a strong individual, an intelligent individual, a headstrong and a self-starting individual – but months ago, when he had been a soft, albeit brilliant, spoiled little brat, he had his heart broken and his pride trampled upon. He wasn't keen on having it happen again. The easiest option to this was, of course, sealing off his heart. That had been the method so far. But Mycroft had never been one to take the easiest option for very long, and now, it seemed, Lestrade was trying to convince him.

But it was just too hard, because of his damn past and his fucking boyfriend.

Then Mycroft remembered.

Sherlock's birthday party. Tonight. "Oh, my dear Gregory, my apologies. I have something to do tonight. Very important, and simply cannot be rescheduled. I hate to do this to you, but perhaps we could do this another time?"

Although Lestrade's face fell, he did perk up at the thought of Mycroft rescheduling. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft's lips. "No worries, sweetheart. Some other time. Though I will have to cook dinner for you, yeah? I'm a massively brilliant cook."

With that, Lestrade left, and Mycroft leaned forward to put his hands through his hair.

It wasn't that he was worried Lestrade would be disappointed or annoyed with him. Mycroft was an excellent judge of character, he was fairly certain, and Lestrade's body language didn't read that he was dismayed at his response. No, Mycroft was disappointed in _himself. _If he had just been a twenty-four-year old, he would've agreed wholeheartedly. That's what it came down to, he supposed – if he had just been.

He had put his head on the desk and had begun hyperventilating before he had realised what was going on. His breathing was coming in quick, manic spurts. His limbs were shaking. He was crying, sniveling, shivering.

Anthea had stood up and put a hand on his back. "Is everything alright, sir?" She asked kindly, crouching down to get on his level. "I can call for medical support, if you require."

"No, it's…everything's just-" Mycroft tried to explain that he was alright, but the words would just not come out. He was _mortified _at Anthea seeing him in such a pitiful position, but she didn't seem to betray any emotion.

"Apologies for my intrusion, sir, but this wouldn't have anything to do with…your previous partner, would it?" Anthea asked him, her hands gently rubbing a spot between his shoulder blades. "Was he ever…unkind?"

"No, not…unkind, not ever. He could not be_ - _" Mycroft hissed out, before just shaking his head in anguish. It hurt too much to talk about, and Mycroft just wanted to delete that unfortunate incident from his mind. "It wasn't – this isn't because I was ever – no. Anthea, just… I need to be alone."

"Leaving you during a time of distress would be improper." Anthea responded in her quiet, resolute voice.

Mycroft calmed down after a few moments, packed up his things, and left. He liked to think that he left his office with Anthea as a friend rather than just a PA.

"Sherlock, calm down, would you?" Mycroft insisted softly, placing the small cake in front of the bouncing boy. Sherlock seemed to be rather excited the entire day, and Mycroft could only chalk it up to a child's wonder about his own birthday. "Now, now. We must be traditional about this."

It was later at night. Mycroft had come home and decorated the flat as best he could. Although he alluded to how Sherlock was allowed to bring any guests over to the flat for the party, he wasn't altogether unsurprised by Sherlock declining to bring anyone.

Sherlock's singular present was on the table in front of him. Mycroft had ceased feeling guilty about that – in fact, he felt quite proud about being able to give Sherlock a proper birthday.

He started to sing to Sherlock, his voice a bit feeble and weak. "Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Sher-"

"_Stop, _for the love of _God!" _Sherlock moaned, covering his ears. "It's horrendous."

Usually, Mycroft would've gotten angry at him. Or would've told him off. However, Mycroft figured that he best allow Sherlock to have his day, so he just shook his head and shoved Sherlock's present towards him. "Here, then. And you're to eat some cake. You've regained some weight, and I shan't have you losing any of it."

Sherlock took the present in his hands and began to open it. As he did so, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"And may I just say that I am extremely proud of you, Sherlock. I could ask for a better young brother, perhaps, a more well-behaved one or a kinder one. But I would never be as happy with him as I am with you as my sibling." Mycroft explained honestly, and Sherlock looked at him.

He expected for the small boy to stick his tongue out at him or insult him, but for a second, Mycroft honestly thought Sherlock was about to cry.

Sherlock hid his face and finished opening his present.

It was something small, of course. Mycroft hadn't even meant to get it, but he had just happened across it. It wasn't in very good condition, and it showed. Still, though, it had cost quite a pretty penny and had set their 'flat' fund back a few pounds – but Mycroft still glowed with pride at the sight of Sherlock holding one of the few things he had adored during his time at the Holmes' manor.

"You thought I had forgotten that you played the violin, did you not?"


	12. Chapter 12

By then, it was several weeks beyond Sherlock's thirteenth birthday. Mycroft had continued working, continued going on cute, simple dates with Lestrade, and even found an unlikely companion in Anthea. Of course he still walked home with Sherlock, despite the boy's protests that he didn't need to be walked home anymore. After Sherlock's protests, Mycroft had begun to let him walk home alone once a week. It was a nice opportunity to work late and to allow Sherlock a bit more freedom.

That did cause some stress, of course. How much _freedom _was Mycroft allowed when he was thirteen? He thought back to his home life. His mother was usually off planning some social event, and his father was rarely, if ever home. Mycroft couldn't remember a single spoken rule imposed to him. There were dozens _unspoken, _of course – make sure your suit was pressed, speak softly and only when spoken to, don't say anything that could even potentially be considered 'not good'. Beyond that, however, he was free to roam the manor as he pleased.

And yet, Mycroft recalled, he never thought about even pushing the rules. He didn't dare venture beyond the grounds of the Holmes Manor without express permission. When he was older, of course, he relaxed a bit, especially when he met-

Well.

Reminiscing never led to any good decisions.

On those days when Mycroft came home late, he always returned to violin music. Sherlock practiced more than that, of course, but it was always special to come home and hear Sherlock playing his music. The boy really was rather good at it, Mycroft thought, not without a touch of envy. When he was younger, Mycroft had tried to become proficient at an instrument. Even now, he could barely play the piano. He didn't remember the lessons fondly – mostly, he remembered his father looking over his shoulder with a chilling hand on his back.

Sherlock, however, was marvelous. A true genius, entirely comprised in a thirteen-year-old frame. Mycroft was so proud of him. Already, Mycroft had ideas of Sherlock channeling his hyperactivity into something like this.

His grades had been picking up, he had been getting into _less _trouble, and, once, just a few days ago, he had told an animated story to Mycroft about a young boy that he had met, in his class, named Carl Powers. Mycroft listened intently.

Overall, Sherlock was doing _beautifully. _

He was walking home at that very moment, a bag of groceries thrown casually over his shoulder. Mycroft had begun to increase his cooking ability. With that, Mycroft came across a brand-new worry – the fear of gaining weight. He had taken to looking at himself in the mirror and placing a hand on his stomach, which caused Sherlock's shouts of 'Fatcroft' to become ever more cutting.

Still, if that was the most that Mycroft had to worry over, he was happy.

He crossed through the neighborhood with confidence, now. The assault that had happened to him seemed so far away, now. Besides, if he ever felt frightened or vulnerable, his Lestrade was only a phone call away.

When he came home, there was no violin music.

Mycroft tilted his head to the side in confusion, although he made his way to the kitchen first. "Sherlock?" He called out hesitantly. There was no fear in his voice, not quite yet – Sherlock was probably just napping, or in his room doing something else. He put away the shopping in silence, although his hands started to drift occasionally to his mobile.

With still no response, Mycroft frowned and then walked to Sherlock's door. He rapped his knuckles against it. "Sherlock?" The question was delivered softly, and when he heard no response, Mycroft entered the room.

Sherlock was not there.

_Oh, not again. _

This time, he was more annoyed than frightened. Mycroft immediately made his way to the window with the fire escape, pushing it open. He stuck his head out into the stifling air outside and called out, "Sherlock?"

There was a loud cry of '_fuck!' _and some scurrying from the floor upstairs.

And suddenly, Sherlock was standing before him. His eyes were wide and blue; his hair was a ruffled mess. Before Mycroft could properly see what it was, Sherlock tossed something off the side of the escape and straightened his clothing down.

Mycroft could tell. His eyes flicked over the boy, and if the physical observation wasn't enough, Mycroft could _smell _it all over him. Beyond that, Mycroft had to look to see if the boy was doing this _constantly. _No, there was no yellowing of the fingertips, no slightly glazed-over look in the eyes. In fact, Sherlock looked quite green, as if the smoke had been too much for him.

"_Sherlock Elliot Holmes." _ Mycroft's words were delivered through hissed teeth. One hand immediately went forward to snatch up Sherlock's collar. "What on Earth do you think you're doing? You are _thirteen, _for God's sake, and this is no time to adopt a _smoking habit. _Can you understand how furious I am with you? Get inside your room!" His words hardly sounded like his own, and he realised with a small shock that he was doing a fantastic impression of his father.

Sherlock didn't fail to recognize that. His blue eyes widened in shock at Mycroft's outburst, and for a second, guilt mixed in with all of Mycroft's blind fury. That disappeared mercifully quickly. As Sherlock slipped back inside his room, he began to speak.

"_No _– Mycroft, you don't understand. I needed to concentrate, badly. A boy…a boy in my class, the Carl Powers boy, he got into a fight today at the schoolyard." Sherlock started to stutter out, waving a hand. As he finished, he coughed before going on. "It was _awful, _and Carl was worrying whether or not he'd be able to go to his swim meet this afternoon because he had a blackened eye, and then the boy threatened to _kill _Carl and there was this smaller boy, I don't know his name, something with a J, Jason, or Jackson, or Jam-"

"It does not _matter." _Mycroft held up one hand, his eyes flashing dangerously. "I do not care how badly you needed to concentrate, Sherlock. I will not have any brother of mine smoking in this flat. I am supposed to be taking care of you, Sherlock. I am _responsible _for you, and you won't be doing this."

Sherlock seemed to regain a little of his moxie. Getting off his bed, he looked up at Mycroft. "You're _always _doing this, Mycroft!" He hissed at him, trying to rise to his full height. Mycroft realised with a shock that Sherlock had grown a few inches. "You never listen to what _anyone _else has to say! Nobody died and made you Queen, Mycroft, and not everybody has to listen to you! You just think you're _so _important, with your big bloody job, and you think you can just order everyone around! This is why nobody likes you, Mycroft, and this is why you're the biggest _shitface _that's ever waddled around!"

It was as if he had prepared the speech. Sherlock then stood on his feet and just stared at Mycroft.

Mycroft honestly did not know what to say.

He was blinded with a mixture of anger, guilt, shame, and a strange nostalgic (and certainly not in a good sense) came over him. There was a strange, tense silence between the two, and several unsaid (although unkind) words travelled between their eyes.

Full of fury, Mycroft left the flat.

It took him only twenty minutes for him to reach Lestrade's flat.

Although he had never properly been there, Lestrade had forwarded him the address several times. Close by, although still a bit of a walk. The walk, in all, took about forty-five minutes – enough for Mycroft to sort his thoughts out.

That ungrateful little twit. Mycroft had done everything for him, done things that Sherlock didn't know about and would never know about. Perhaps he was a little bit overbearing – he _had _to be. Sherlock was the most irritating, hyperactive little person on the planet and Mycroft was the one tasked with taking care of him. And Mycroft had done it to the best of his ability. He'd stand in front of a bullet for him any day.

And that _crock _about nobody liking him was what led him to Lestrade.

Mycroft knocked on the door firmly, still brimming with anger. At the moment, he didn't even care about Sherlock being in the flat on his own. Sherlock was ungrateful for what Mycroft had done, and Mycroft was fully intending to go after his own pursuits. If only for a few hours, he told himself.

His brother had started _smoking. _Mycroft couldn't wrap his head around it.

Lestrade opened the door just a half-minute later. At the time, the sun was just beginning to set. Lestrade had changed out of his Yarder clothes into a more casual polo and jeans. It was lovely to see, and Mycroft was filled the ridiculous urge to do something brash.

Brash, for Mycroft, was more or less just not introducing himself. Brash, for Mycroft, was him throwing his arms around Lestrade and pressing their faces together harshly. Brash, for Mycroft, was him throwing his full weight against Lestrade's front and pushing him back inside his flat.

They continued in that fashion until Lestrade finally pulled away from him. He put both hands on his shoulders and gave him the same breathless, goofy grin that Mycroft loved so fantastically. As his eyes fell on Mycroft's face, though, his smile fell. His hands moved from Mycroft's waist to his face, and he murmured in a soft voice, "You're crying."

Oh, _hell, _no. Mycroft immediately stepped away from Lestrade and began rubbing at his face. "I…Apologies, Gregory, that was temerarious of me. I was just behaving like…like a child, I suppose, but I so wanted to see you, and I just – "

With that, Mycroft took the opportunity to look around Lestrade's flat. It was certainly more spacious than his own, but that wasn't what caught Mycroft's attention. There was a football game on the telly; there was a can of beer on the table, some Chinese food next to it. The flat wasn't _messy, _per se, but there was a certain roughness to it that made Mycroft's heart twitch. It was decorated simply and clearly on a budget.

Overall, it looked so wonderfully domestic and homey that Mycroft almost started crying again. The fact that he had been crying, before, still alarmed him. He was Mycroft Holmes, for goodness' sake, not some sensitive teenager. Still, he told himself, it was his brother – who could have been his child.

It wasn't like he could tell Lestrade any of that.

"Sweetheart, what happened?" Lestrade murmured in the most loving manner possible. One hand pushed up through Mycroft's hair, and the other rested firmly on the small of Mycroft's back. "You look upset, and…hell, My, did you _walk _here? It must've taken ages."

Mycroft realised that he was so spun up that he couldn't even remember the fake address he must've given Lestrade. He let out a shuddering breath. "Nothing, Gregory, it's…nothing specific. Just a cumbersome day, I suppose. I am _so _terribly sorry for the intrusion, but I was wondering if I could just stay for…" God, pure spite wanted to ask to spend the night. Let Sherlock have a night on his own and see just how little he really needed his older brother. But, at his core, Mycroft Holmes was an honourable man. "A few hours, at most. Perhaps we could watch the rest of the football game?"

"Uh, sure. You hungry? I mean, I think have some leftovers in the kitchen, and there's still a bit of Chinese left. If you want." Lestrade offered, although Mycroft suspected it was mostly out of chivalry. As Lestrade turned around to sit, Mycroft caught a glance of something troubling. It was…not distrust. Not as severe as that, but certainly confusion. He felt the keen, hard prick of fear.

He just shook his head and sat on the sofa.

Initially, Mycroft sat a few inches away from Lestrade, feeling awkward.

For goodness' sake, this was Lestrade's _home. _Mycroft could see where he slept on the sofa, could see the worn buttons on the clicker, and could see how Lestrade had just thrown his Yarder jacket on the floor. It was touchingly personal, and initially, Mycroft feared slipping back into his panic attacks. Then, as some team or another made a goal that Mycroft truly didn't care about, Lestrade slipped his arm over Mycroft's shoulders.

The peace that he felt in that instant was earthshattering.

In that way, they continued. Little by little, they leaned across on the sofa. By the time the game ended, Lestrade was laying on his side, facing the telly. Mycroft was tucked comfortably against his front in the same position. Occasionally, in a happy sort of stupor, he would lean up to press a kiss against Lestrade's cheek or to nibble at his ear. Each time, Lestrade would let out a happy sort of grunt, and Mycroft focused way too much on the way his hand was slipping lower and lower down Mycroft's chest. Once, Lestrade leaned down to nibble at his neck affectionately, which caused him to let out a stifled little noise.

Lestrade summed it up best, he figured: "Look at us. Proper domestic couple, aren't we?" His temporary suspicion from early seemed to have disappeared.

Oh, and now, Mycroft wanted to tell him. Wanted to tell him about Sherlock's little cigarette habit, wanted to tell him about their shared fight, wanted to tell him about everything. He had gotten what he had come for, however – reassurance that someone did like him for who he was. Granted, that person also knew very little about his past life. The point still stood.

"A domestic couple, indee-"

"You know, My, I think I-"

They both spoke at once, and Mycroft turned around in his arms to stare up at that lovely face. "You said something?"

Lestrade looked a little bit hurt, a little bit hesitant, and a little bit guilty. "Nothing. I was just going to say that…well, My. I don't know how to say I feel about you. It's…odd, because I just…I don't know. I want to know _everything _about you. I know you can tell everything about me from a glance, but I'm not like that." He leaned down to press a kiss to the man's cheek. When he spoke again, it was directly into Mycroft's ear. "Tell me, Mycroft."

And suddenly, it was all too much and all too stunningly close to being revealed.

Suddenly, he was no longer just a man using Lestrade as a way to blow off steam. Lestrade was becoming a very, very important part of his life, and Mycroft knew it wouldn't last for very long.

Mycroft's reaction was to flee.

He stood up and immediately brushed himself off. Lestrade looked up at him with the hurt, puppy-dog look that he had nearly patented. "I'm sorry, Gregory, but I must – I have to go. A very important meeting that I've forgotten. I'll see you-"

"Let me _drive, _My, it looks like it's raining outside – " Greg interrupted him, standing up and reaching for his jacket on the floor.

"_No!" _Mycroft hissed at him. Looking at him with widened, confused, and disappointed eyes, he stomped out the door.

It was raining.

For the entire walk home, it rained. Overall, he had probably been away from Sherlock for about four hours. Four lovely, romantic, affectionate hours, but Sherlock could've gotten up to anything. It had been foolish and irresponsible of him to leave Sherlock alone.

Moreover, his boyfriend was getting suspicious. Mycroft had probably hurt him, too.

And suddenly, Mycroft was feeling worse than ever before. He entered into their flat building with slumped shoulders. Dripping slightly, he fiddled with the key and let himself in.

Oh. Violin music.

Mycroft looked up to see Sherlock sitting on the sofa. He hadn't smoked any more, but he had gone somewhere. The edges of his shirt were still wet from the rain, outside. Still, Sherlock was playing the violin and Mycroft felt his heart settle. If only slightly. The sound of Sherlock's lovely sonatas and symphonies were absolutely calming.

The bow skid off the strings with a violent screech as Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were sharp, keen, and penetrating. Mycroft realised with a curse and a shock that he was being deduced.

The sound of the violin shocked Mycroft more, admittedly. It was like nails on a chalkboard, and it struck Mycroft to his core.

"You have a _boyfriend, _Mycroft!?"


	13. Chapter 13

At first, Mycroft could only stare at Sherlock with a practiced, confused look. Surely Sherlock was just ranting again, or had experienced a temporary bout of insanity – there was certainly _no _way in hell that Sherlock had been able to deduce what Mycroft had been trying so long to hide.

That was when he realized he hadn't exactly been spending the last few hours _carefully. _

One hand flew up to Lestrade's lovebite on his neck and he let out a very improper and ungentlemanly swear.

Sherlock's expression was difficult to describe. There was confusion and disgust there, yes, but also…a tad bit of hurt, a tad bit of worry. The metaphorical cocktail of emotions tugged at Mycroft's heart strings and made him feel guilty for even _considering _a relationship.

The expression was wiped off of Sherlock's face, quickly, replaced by a strangely shrewd stare.

"You were watching _telly _with him, weren't you? While he ate? In his own home? Doesn't that imply some sort of _familiarity, _Mycroft? How long have you been together?"

The accusatory tone of Sherlock's voice ruffled Mycroft's feathers. The guilt left. Suddenly, Mycroft tugged the buttons on his suit jacket together and looked squarely at Sherlock. The boy had been growing taller. "We have been together for perhaps a month and a half, now, and it's fully within my right to enter into a relationship. I'm twenty-four years old, for goodness' sake. I hardly need Mummy's permission."

"Twenty-five." Sherlock told him sharply, glaring up at him. "Your birthday was last week."

"Oh." Mycroft blinked, taking a step back. After that verbal disarment, he just shook his head. "The point still stands."

"Who is he?" Sherlock demanded, placing his violin to the side. He did so gingerly, as if he wanted to protect it. Mycroft noted, not without bitterness, that that may have been the first time he was so outwardly kind with something in his life. "What's his name? What does he do?"

There was no denying it any longer. Sherlock obviously knew there was someone, and Mycroft didn't want to think what length he'd go to in order to find it out. So Mycroft just sighed, put his hands up in defeat, and went to lean against the wall. "You've met him, previously. Only once before. Gregory Lestrade, the man who used to go to the coffee shop I once worked at. A lovely officer at the Yard. Very kind, very sweet, very fit."

Sherlock's eyes screwed together. "Then what is he with you for? You're hardly attractive, a bore to talk to, and you never tell anyone _any_thing." The penny seemed to drop right then, and Sherlock's voice became accusatory, and…well, childlike. "He doesn't know where you live or that you have a brother, does he?"

Shame overwhelmed Mycroft, but, like a good little politician, he held it in. "No, I have not told him about you. That is a highly personal matter, Sherlock, and I'm waiting for the right moment to let him know. I promise you that I will – but when, I cannot promise anything."

Sherlock snorted and looked down at his feet. The boy seemed more dejected than anything, then. "And if he finds out? You'll tell him about why we left Mummy and Father, even if you won't tell me?"

A discussion about Mycroft's love life had devolved into one of the most basic arguments that he and Sherlock seemed to have. "Perhaps I will, Sherlock, because Gregory is an adult. When you get older, I will tell you. I assure you."

Sherlock still didn't look up. Indeed, he didn't say anything at all. Mycroft was fairly certain that he heard a miserable sniff.

Sighing, Mycroft got down on his knees. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that Sherlock was just a small child, and the last relationship Mycroft had been in…well, Sherlock hadn't seen the worst of it. Not that last, final argument. No, he had only seen how twittery and lovesick Mycroft had been, and how many times Mycroft had brushed Sherlock off for his partner.

Both hands went to Sherlock's shoulders, and he rubbed his thumbs gently. "Sherlock. I will tell you one thing about it. Will you listen?"

Another sniff, but Sherlock did look up at Mycroft, albeit with a wary eye.

"Of course. Well, that last night, before we moved out, I became aware of…something that Mummy and Father had been hiding from us for a long while. I decided that you would have a happier and altogether more fulfilling childhood if we were to live apart." Mycroft cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. "Along with that, I was twenty-four. It was time for me to move out. I didn't think it entirely awful if I were to, just…take you with me. Does that make sense?"

Sherlock hesitated, and then nodded. "But what about that…boy, that you-"

"And _that _certainly doesn't concern you." Mycroft murmured at him, shaking his head. "Now, concerning Lestrade. I will try to keep you and him as far removed as possible. I understand that it's a bit awkward, perhaps, but I promise that I will tell him I have a brother. And I will tell him that I have the most troublesome, intelligent , insane little brother in London. Alright?"

At that, Mycroft tried to lean forward and pull Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock was having none of it, and he just pulled away. His arms were still folded, and he didn't seem altogether happy with the situation.

Mycroft couldn't do anything else. He had used his maximum sentiment for the day (for the week, it felt like), and Sherlock just wasn't responding. Sighing, he looked down at the floor and then back up at Sherlock. "Go to bed, Sherlock. You have school tomorrow."

A few hours later, after Sherlock had sullenly retreated to his bedroom, Mycroft was leaning over the kitchen table in unhappiness. There was, of course, the strange struggle between his relationship and his family, and the guilt from hiding so many secrets from so many people. His life had gotten monumentally better after meeting Lestrade, but…rather complicated.

Perhaps it was the wrong choice, to take Sherlock away from the Holmes Manor, after all.

While he was on that (not entirely safe) path, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He rustled with it and set it on the table, absently trying to find who had texted him.

_You alright there, lovey? You left in a bit of a hurry. Nothing the matter? GL xx_

It was commonplace, normal, nothing out of the ordinary. But it was still the most kindhearted, affectionate, sweet thing that Mycroft had heard in a good long while. Very few people outwardly displayed affection toward Mycroft – honestly, most thought him fundamentally unlovable. And then, there was this _man, _who was willing to send an endearing text just to make sure Mycroft was alright.

_I am, thank you. I apologise for leaving like that. Thank you, darling. M_

-

It was Saturday afternoon, just a few days after that incident. After a minor guilt trip from Sherlock's end, Mycroft had agreed to let him around one of the safer parts of London for the day. Mycroft then returned to work, and it had been a fairly normal day.

He had exchanged a few affectionate texts with Lestrade over the course of the day. The man was working, and the day was slow. That continued to about lunchtime, where Mycroft stood up from his desk and strode out of the office.

He had gotten about three blocks before he was nearly bowled over by a young curly-headed boy. Following close behind was highly-familiar, brown-haired Yarder.

Oh, _no. _

Mycroft immediately jogged behind them, trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock. What the boy had gotten into this time, Mycroft didn't know, but the thought that Lestrade was barely a few meters behind him had Mycroft' s stomach twisting.

Had Sherlock gone out and antagonized Lestrade? Had he done something more heinous? Had he done something worth jail-time? Oh, hell, there was still no way Mycroft could argue his case if Sherlock went to some sort of jail. He didn't even have legal ownership over him. They'd alert their bloody _parents, _and it would be absolutely horrid.

Mycroft rounded a corner and saw them.

Old-cartoon style, Lestrade was holding Sherlock by the back of his collar. Sherlock had stopped fighting, although he seemed more content to try and step on Lestrade's feet. Sherlock was swearing like a naval sailor – even Mycroft wasn't that vulgar. God, where on Earth did the boy learn _that? _

They both saw Mycroft at the same time.

Sherlock, much to Mycroft's horror, shouted out, "Fatcroft! Get this _imbecile _off me this minute! He doesn't understand what I'm trying to-"

At the same moment, Lestrade responded with, "My! Sorry, love, I'm trying to get this little gremlin off-"

Mycroft fought the horrifying urge to run. Instead, he walked over to Lestrade and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. His mind spun for solutions.

'Oh, hi, this is my brother. I don't know what he's done – but whatever it is, I won't be horribly surprised. I'm living with him. I don't know if our parents are searching for him – really quite doubtful, if I do say so. So I must plead with you, darling, let my hooligan brother go.'

"Gregory." Mycroft told him, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. He ignored Sherlock entirely just to stare at Lestrade, and he could almost feel Sherlock's fury. "May I ask what this boy has done?"

As if surprised at Mycroft's earnest sincerity, Lestrade just blinked at him before responding. "Er. Found him trying to sneak onto a crime scene. Nasty little murder. Just of a kid, too. And he smelled of cigarette smoke, besides, and I just wanted to take him in to ask a few questions. Damned thing just ran off. Do you know him?"

Sherlock's mood quickly shifted from anger to daring, and he looked up at Mycroft. "Yeah, Fatcroft. Tell him who I am. Tell him how you know me. You won't, will you?"

It felt as if his two worlds were imploding. For the first time in his life, Mycroft just wanted to collapse into tears. He realised how far he had come along from the shy, submissive, simpering, panicking man he had been when he had first gotten attacked – and now, he just wanted to go back to it. Having these two separate halves of his life had made him stronger, of course, but now he just wanted someone to make the decision for him.

In the end, he didn't know whether he made the right decision or not. That was how it was like in politics, he supposed – he wouldn't be sure until he saw the effects of it.

"He's the son of a family friend." Mycroft blurted out, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sorry. He's very, very interested in crime, and he's been so troublesome lately. Love, could you possibly just let him go and I'll return him to his parents? I realise it's a rather a tremendous favour, but I'm quite honestly pleading with you. His parents are affluent, and having him in any sort of legal trouble would be…awful, really. Please, dear?"

Sherlock let out an enraged, "_What!?" _

There was that look, again. Mycroft remembered the look Lestrade was giving him. Back at his home, when Lestrade had given him that one look of suspicion – of uncertainty – of distrust. It was the same look, but Lestrade's hand gradually loosened on Sherlock's collar.

Sherlock bounded over and stood by Mycroft's side. He certainly didn't have the maturity to not stick his tongue out at Lestrade.

Mycroft let out a sigh of relief, and placed his arm around Sherlock's small shoulders. Lestrade leaned forward to kiss him, which was a surprise – and he was fairly sure Sherlock made a gagging noise.

As Lestrade pulled away, he spoke a few words that chilled him to the bone.

"_We need to talk. Come to my flat tomorrow after you get off of work, okay?"_


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft wasn't sure if he had ever felt so guilty in his life.

After Lestrade had whispered those fateful words in his ear, he had placed one arm around Sherlock's thin shoulders and then had turned around.

It was only for a few moments that they walked in silence. In those few moments, Mycroft reflected back on what he had done. There had to have been _some _redeeming quality to them , but in the end, he saw only selfishness.

Nobody loved Sherlock more than he did. His parents certainly didn't, and, unless Sherlock was hiding another brother somewhere, Mycroft was the only one who cared about him. And now he had just denied Sherlock for a boyfriend. The entire situation tasted uncomfortably like his previous boyfriend, and Mycroft, once again, thought of how many times he had pushed Sherlock away back then to go gallivanting off with Mark-

Oh, _yes, _that was his name. It was the first time Mycroft had thought of the actual name in months instead of just his moniker _the boyfriend, _and the actual name made him shiver to himself. Sherlock, who had been just sulking before, now spoke up.

"Why would you _do _that?" Sherlock asked him, point-blank. He shrugged Mycroft's arm off of his shoulders and kept his head down as he walked. Just as Lestrade said, he smelled quite heavily of cigarette smoke, and…chlorine?

"Lestrade does not know that I have a brother." Mycroft spoke. Even if he doubted his own motives for denying Sherlock in front of Lestrade, he had to pretend like what he did was right. He had a sickening feeling that _that _was the feeling of parenthood. "It would be an improper introduction. I must let him know of the news gently, Sherlock. Not when you were on the verge of arrest and…nonsense like that, Sherlock. Of course I'm very sorry, but…what else was I to do?"

"You said you would take _care _of me."

Mycroft's tone grew sharp. "And I _have, _haven't I? You're eating, you're sleeping, you're doing better in school. I haven't the faintest knowledge why you've got the sudden desire to go about crime scenes – and the damn cigarettes, which really must stop. I am taking care of you, Sherlock, but I just-"

Sherlock's tone grew bitter, and…sad. His next words broke Mycroft's heart, and left him nearly immobile.

"You just wish you had a different brother."

With that said, Sherlock stepped on Mycroft's shoe, gave him a shove backwards, and broke off at a sprint.

Thankfully, it was in the homeward direction.

Mycroft just stood there, and suddenly, he felt like he had nothing.

Yes, his pay was better and he was slowly saving up money for another flat. Sherlock was eating more, and sleeping better. He, himself, was doing better, health-wise. But, he had lost other things.

There was no more 'you and I against the world' mentality that he and Sherlock shared. In fact, they seemed more at odds with each other lately than anything else. His boyfriend didn't seem to trust him anymore, and Mycroft just wanted to cuddle up with him and tell him every single thing.

All in all, Mycroft felt miserable again.

He began to walk home.

There was something that could surely be done, he told himself. Sherlock would just simmer for a couple of days and then…well, he would forget it, correct?

In terms of Lestrade, he was going to meet him after work tomorrow. He would explain everything, then, and…well, if Lestrade wished to leave, he would. Mycroft couldn't force him to stay, and he felt like he couldn't keep up this charade much longer.

That resolution, as minor as it was, made Mycroft feel better, so he went home.

He hadn't the faintest idea how Sherlock had let himself into the flat. Then again, Mycroft supposed, they weren't exactly leading the world in security. The lock could be picked, easily. As he entered, he was greeted with silence. No violin music.

Mycroft went to Sherlock's door and knocked. He had prepared a small speech to say, and he repeated it at the door.

"Sherlock, I'm _not _ashamed of having you as my brother. In fact, I'm rather proud of it. You're going to grow up to be something brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, everyone will look up to you. I assure you of that. However I feel for Lestrade is no matter, because you will come first. I will always take care of you first, and my romantic partners second. Do you understand?"

For a good half-minute, Sherlock didn't respond. Then there was the loud 'thump' of Sherlock throwing his shoe at the door.

The morning after, Mycroft woke from his usual position on the couch. He shuffled into the kitchen to make breakfast and yawned, rubbing the back of his head. There wouldn't be anything special for breakfast, so he just took out the cereal and placed it on the table. Sometime later, Mycroft stood to wake Sherlock.

Sometime during the night, Sherlock must have gotten out of his room to unlock his door, as it was unlocked. Mycroft made his way over to Sherlock's side and patted his head.

It was always so nice to see his brother sleep. His curls were pressed against one side of his face, his face was devoid of any distress, and he looked like…well, perhaps not an angel. Sherlock would never be an angel. But he looked like any normal child, and Mycroft was pleased with that.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up, you'll be late for school." Mycroft sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and ran his hand through his curls swiftly. "Up. Up, now, get up."  
Sherlock did wake, and his eyes, unfocused, were on Mycroft. They focused and Sherlock sat up, stretching and looking at him.

Mycroft gauged him, trying to see his feelings. Was he still upset over yesterday, or…?

Without another word, Sherlock detached himself from his bed and shuffled his way towards the kitchen.

Whatever Mycroft tried to say, Sherlock wouldn't respond. Eventually, Mycroft just told Sherlock to go get ready and he did in silence.

With Sherlock off to school, Mycroft went to work. Most of the day went dully – Anthea had been given the half-day off, and so, she came in just around lunch. She waltzed in with a few takeaway containers and set one on Mycroft's desk. In confusion, Mycroft looked at her – and his hand immediately went to his stomach, gauging the half-stone or so he had accumulated.

"Mycroft, you look miserable and you look like you haven't eaten in ages." Anthea told him quietly, leaning back in her chair. She began picking at her own food. "Now, what's been going on? Today, you just seem like the saddest man in London. Did something happen with Sherlock? Or your boyfriend?"

"Both?" Mycroft replied with a grim chuckle. At her urging, he did lean back and began to pick at his food. "Gregory nearly arrested Sherlock the other afternoon. In an attempt to get him away, I told him that Sherlock was a family friend or some nonsense. Sherlock took it rather harshly, of course, and I fear that Gregory didn't believe me anyway."

"Oh." Anthea responded, glancing up at him. It was odd, really – in private quarters, Anthea seemed terribly kind. Whenever Mycroft went out, she was as cold as ice and terribly quiet. "You've apologized to your brother, I suppose. What are you going to do about Lestrade?"

"I'm going to speak with him after work. I suppose I'll tell him the truth, then, but I just…it's all so _difficult, _Anthea. As soon as I tell him, he'll want to leave. I can't just keep up the lies, either. I care about that man more than what really is appropriate, and I do want him to know the truth."

"Have you ever thought that…he might not leave? He may stay? He may even want to help?"

"I cannot assume he'll do that. In the end, I must choose what is right for Sherlock. If Gregory wishes to leave, then…he'll leave, and I'll let him. Sherlock's just thirteen years old. He still needs a parent, albeit a makeshift one."

Suddenly, Anthea was up and sitting on his desk. Mycroft looked at her with a raised eyebrow, and she patted his shoulder warmly. "You're a good man, Mycroft Holmes. I'm rather proud to be working for you. You're going to be something damn important someday, but…well, I'm glad I met you now. Before the corruption sets in."

Mycroft smiled at that, looking down at his desk. "Yes, w-well…thank you, Anthea. It's a pleasure to have you as my assistant, and I will inform you on everything that's going on. If I need a shoulder to cry on, or…I don't know. A wedding planner?"

"That's the spirit, Mr. Holmes." Anthea told him with another smile, sliding off his desk and squeezing his shoulder tightly. "Now, go on. I'll finish the rest of your work for you, and you've got to talk to a devilishly handsome man. I hope everything goes well."

Mycroft smiled, bowed slightly, thanked her, and left.

He nearly had a panic attack on the way to Lestrade's flat.

He hadn't told _anyone. _Without Lestrade around, he would have gone into old age without telling anyone the real reason why he left. Perhaps there was a certain amount of stupidity to it – when looked at by an objective figure, perhaps it wasn't that bad at all. But to Mycroft, it was still on the edge of every corner and at the end of every word. Lestrade, albeit one of the most perfect men in London, was not altogether the most intelligent. Would he even understand? Or would he just…go away?

Gently, he knocked on the door.

Oh, he felt so _strongly _for this man. When he had still been working in the coffeeshop and still recovering from the assault, Lestrade had been one of the few good things in his life. Now, there were others, of course, but…Mycroft didn't want to lose him. He wasn't inclined to use the 'love' word, no, his mind would never permit that, but…that was what it was, at the end of the day.

Lestrade answered it and blinked at him. Mycroft felt relieved that his boyfriend's face relaxed into a smile, and he took a step forward to press a kiss to Mycroft's lips. As he did so, he murmured, "Did I frighten you, lovey? You look like you're going to piss yourself."

Well, _that _wasn't entirely good, but Mycroft chuckled with it.

Mycroft glanced at the sofa as to whether he should sit down or not, but Lestrade put both hands on his shoulders and looked at him.

Strangely enough, it took Mycroft a few seconds for him to meet Lestrade's eyes. As he did, he nearly melted. Those bright, warm, brown eyes. Mycroft could see them anywhere, whether from the other side of a bed, from the opposite side of a dinner table, or after a romantic embrace. Granted, they made lying to Lestrade extremely difficult and Mycroft was further convinced that he had to tell the truth to him.

"Mycroft, we're going to need to talk. We're not going to have a fight, we're not going to argue. Okay? We're just going to keep calm and talk." Lestrade murmured at him, keeping a firm hold in his shoulders. Mycroft wanted to run against him and throw his arms around him. God, what a sickening display of sentiment, but Mycroft just _wanted _to be near him. He wanted to be comforted, and he wanted a time where he didn't have to be the strongest man in the room.

After Mycroft didn't respond, Lestrade continued. "Look, now, I feel very…strongly for you. We've been together for a little while now, and you _are _brilliant. You're lovely, you're gorgeous, you're intelligent, you're sweet and mysterious – but a little bit too much on that last one, I think." He sighed and squeezed Mycroft's shoulders whilst breaking eye contact. "I don't know what it is, Mycroft, but especially with yesterday…I feel like I barely know you. I don't know. Like I'm the only one in the dark about some big secret of yours. It could be nothing, but…you could just call it copper's intuition. Is there anything you want to tell me? I'll listen to anything. I just want to know, lovey." A kiss to his forehead, but it seemed like a miserable goodbye kiss to Mycroft. "If there is something, and you just don't want to tell me…well, we can just end it now. I won't be in the dark, Mycroft. I can't do it. Not when I'm mad over you like this. We've got to be equal. Yeah?"

Mycroft shut his eyes. He breathed. He pressed his lips against Lestrade's and murmured, "I'll explain. Sit."


	15. Chapter 15

When Mycroft had left the house that morning, it had been overcast. England, even this far away from London, was rarely bright and sunny. As he left, he tugged his coat and scarf tighter around himself. It was rather cold outside, but he had a rather different reason altogether for bundling up.

There were numerous gardeners and other such employees ambling around Holmes Manor at any given time. Besides, he couldn't afford for one of his Father's employees spotting him under the street, although he certainly doubted that would happen. He was trying to hide himself as he flipped up his coat collar and covered the bottom of his face with his scarf.

"Fatcroft! Where are you going?"

Mycroft placed a hand to his stomach, his face reddening almost immediately. Yes, he'd always been a bit on the larger side, and Sherlock had recently given his greatest insecurity an unwitty nickname. Stopping as he was nearly out the gates, Mycroft's shoulder slumped and he turned around to face his little brother.

A smiling, bright boy at the age of twelve, Sherlock didn't have the wit yet to realise that his childhood was not like other children's. His parents never told him that they loved him, he rarely received a kind hug, and he had spent most of his childhood alone. The only person he had in the world was Mycroft Holmes, who, after a four year visit at Uni, had come back and reunited with his brother. Even after two years, Sherlock still didn't forgive him for leaving in the first place.

How cliché.

"I'm going on a small walk. You make enough comments about my weight, I imagine that a walk would do me some good. I've heard that there's a beehive near the gardener's shed. If you ask Travis, I'm sure he would be willing to take it down in front of you." Mycroft insisted at him. With a wince, he crouched down in front of his little brother. "Now, would you head along? And…perchance, if you see Father, tell him that I'm preparing my resume in my room."

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, unsure of whether to give into his brother's commands or to taste the savoury rush of getting his brother into trouble. "Father's working all day today. He told me so. And Mummy's planning another ball. I won't have to go to _that _one, too, will I?"

That brought a small smile to Mycroft's face. No, Sherlock hadn't inherited Mycroft's aptitude for schmoozing, and, for some reason, Mycroft was strangely grateful. "We'll see, Sherlock. Now. If you hurry along and tell anyone who asks that I'm in my room and shouldn't be disturbed, I will put in a good word for you with Mummy."

"But where are you going?" Sherlock demanded of him with bright eyes. "Where do you always sneak off to?"

Again, Mycroft gave him a strange, secretive smile. "Brush up on your detective skills while I'm away, Sherlock, and perhaps you'll know."

With that, Mycroft turned on his heel and left, aiming for a very particular flat.

He approached it quietly, without calling attention to himself. If anyone actually _saw _him here…hell, he didn't even want to think of it. His father had access to the CCTV, and all it took was one off look for Mycroft to be found out. And if he were found out…he couldn't imagine.

He let himself into the flat. His boyfriend had given him a key long ago with the cheerful invitation that he could come anytime. It was one of the things he looked forward to most, and he couldn't help but think…once Sherlock was a little more older, and a little more independent, then Mycroft could stay here permanently. He loved his brother, he would do anything for his brother, but he was happiest here.

"Darling?" His words were purred as he entered into the flat, immediately undoing his scarf and searching for his lover. "You called? Did you have something you want to talk about?"

His boyfriend stepped into the sitting room from the kitchen.

Oh, he loved Mark. Mark was handsome, young, sweet, kind, handsome, funny, brilliant, and a massively hard worker. They were in the same line of work, and oh, it was horrendous, working beside Mark on a daily basis without letting anyone know of their relationship. They had been together since Mycroft had gotten home from Uni, and he couldn't imagine being happier.

This time, however, Mark looked a little more exhausted. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his usually perfectly-coifed hair was sticking up in several odd chunks. Mycroft's warm, affectionate expression turned into one of concern. He crossed over and took Mark's hand, placing a gentle kiss against Mark's cheek. Mark allowed it.

"Hey there, Croft." He greeted him wearily, and put a hand against his shoulder. "Can we just go over on the sofa and…sit for a little bit?" Without listening for Mycroft's answer, he went to go sit on the sofa.

Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft sat by him. He instinctively leaned and curled up against Mark's side. With Mark, he didn't feel insecure about what he looked like, he didn't feel uncertain about the future, he didn't worry about what would happen if his Father found out. With Mark, he was wonderfully happy.

"Look, Croft." Mark started, leaning forward and running both hands through his hair. "You're…you're a brilliantly wonderful guy."

No, Mycroft didn't know what was going to happen just then, but he was confident that a little blooming flower of doubt just burst in his stomach. He felt ill.

"And…Croft, I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy our time together. Well…" He let out a nervous, simpering laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe I didn't enjoy it. These past two years have been…Jesus Christ, I suppose I just have to be honest. They've been awful. I've been absolutely miserable. And I just wanted to let you know this before this goes any…further, and Mycroft, I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm not. But this isn't fair to you."

It was as if Mycroft's worst nightmares had come alive. He didn't say a word, but he swiftly leaned away from Mark and his side of the sofa.

"Mycroft, I'm not gay; I'm not…I'm not attracted to you. I've never been attracted to you." Pausing for a moment and collecting his thoughts, Mark started again. "When we first started working together, I knew who your father was. I wanted to get in good, you know? And I didn't…no, God, I didn't want to _use _you, Mycroft. I just wanted to have you on my side. So we got to talking, and then you started showing _interest – _" Mark gulped, and shook his head. "And I couldn't just say no, you know? I'd never rise up with _you _against me. So I said yes to the date, and then yes to the second, and then yes to sleeping with you, and it just…snowballed."

Trying to shove all of his emotions underneath the calm, cool plate of logic, Mycroft finished for him. "And because you realised that I would never give you preferential treatment for fear of my Father finding out about us, you decided to do…this. The break-up."

"Yeah." Mark swallowed, giving another nervous laugh again. "I'm surprised that you didn't notice before, Mycroft. I mean…the sex, especially, it was just…difficult. I wasn't…I mean, you've slept with other blokes before, yeah? You knew that I was…well, I was just…faking it, o-or…"

Not wanting to hear more, Mycroft stood up and brushed his hands off the front of his coat. "I think we've finished our collaboration here, Mark. Rest assured, no harm will come to you. My Father, as usual, will not know. I only ask that you not contact me again, and please, stop requesting to work on projects with me. It will be easier for all of us, I imagine."

"Aw, c'mon, Mycroft…" Mark started off, standing up and pressing a hand against his shoulder.

Unfortunately, it was too late. Mycroft had turned and had headed out the door, and Mark hadn't stopped him.

No, he didn't return home right away. How could he? The love of his life, the man he was convinced he'd marry someday, and who he, no, _hadn't _noticed that he was faking, thank you very much, had just told him that he'd never been interested in him. Two years of his life, gone. All of those happy memories he had, faked. His reason to stay in London, vanished.

This man had taught him to believe in sentiment again. Mycroft had been a soft, simpering, romantic little fool, and now he was paying for it. He didn't want to love again. There was always the risk there'd be a second Mark, a third Mark, a dozen Marks all against his heart, and Mycroft knew t hat he was just not strong enough.

So, Mycroft succumbed to what he was feeling. He sat in an alley and sobbed himself until he felt like he was going to die, and then he got up. With a haughty air, he straightened out his coat and headed out into the cold night air.

By the time he returned home, the swelling in Mycroft's face had gone down. For all the world, he looked like he had just went out on a very brisk walk. The bright lights at the Holmes Manor were doing nothing to cheer him, and Mycroft just wanted to go in to sleep. Perhaps he'd read Sherlock a bedtime story, and Sherlock would complain that he was too old for them, and then Mycroft would disappear to his room.

He wasn't greeted any pleasant noise, however.

As he approached the door to the living room, where the stairs upstairs were located, he heard very loud arguing. His Mother and his Father. Soft footsteps upstairs told him that Sherlock was likely in his room (or, hell, even playing pirates in the bathtub), and likely couldn't hear.

"Did you _hear _what the gardener said the boy did today? He caught him poking around in a beehive, getting the bits and pieces all over the grounds. And then he got _stung, _and he was sniffling all day about it. My God, it's like we're raising a little freak, Lillian."

His Mother sniffled from the other end of the room and wrung her hands together. "And he's such a little _terror _at parties. He's always being rude to the guests, or stealing the food from the table, or scowling in the corner. I can't do _anything _to get him to behave!"

"I don't think we can fix him. Do you realize what he'll be like when he gets into secondary school? God, _Mycroft's _teenage years were bad enough. I won't deal with his, Lillian, I won't have it. He's not even _my _child, he's your little bastard-"

"Please _don't!" _Mummy sniffed, and Mycroft could nearly hear her wringing her hands. "I told you that I was _sorry, _Siger! It was one night, and you had been gone for _so _long. Yes, it was very kind for you to let me to keep him, but-"

"Oh, _let _you keep him." Siger scoffed, crossing the room again. He was pacing. "By the time every damned person in the neighborhood knew you were pregnant, you still thought it was _mine. _How would it look if you suddenly _weren't _pregnant? Everyone would call you the neighborhood whore, Lillian." His voice lowered a few tones. "Not that that's far from the truth."

At that, Mummy Holmes broke into tears. She had never been of particularly strong constitution, Mycroft remembered. Siger continued on. "I'm going to tell you what's going to happen. We're going to send that little terror off to boarding school, and then he'll be off our hands. You understand?"

Mycroft's breath caught in his breath. Lillian uttered out a stuttering statement. "B-but what about Mycroft? He adores the boy."

Siger scoffed. "Mycroft's twenty-four. He's a man, now. And I'm going to be moving him out of here, anyway."

"What? Why?"

"There's this chav who works with him, named Mark. Now, there's a rumor going around that Mark's one of them…you know…" Siger waved his hand in the air, scoffing. "And I don't want him getting forward with Mycroft. Mycroft's got his nose to the book, my boy, and I want him to find a nice woman someday. He's certainly not going to attract anyone if he's got a damned fairy following him about. I've been thinking about shifting him over to Traffic."

That was all Mycroft cared to listen to. Steaming, absolutely brimming with hatred, he turned heel and went upstairs using the servant's staircase.

A boarding school, first of all. Sherlock was just a boy, and he wouldn't survive there. Sherlock couldn't make friends with anyone. He was absolutely incapable of it, and Mycroft hated to think of him, somewhere, surrounded by brutish, obnoxious young boys. Sherlock would be miserable for the rest of his childhood life, and Mycroft couldn't afford for that to happen.

Then again, it wasn't as if he'd get a loving childhood at the Holmes Manor. Mycroft had never understood Sherlock's real paternity before. No wonder Siger had always been so cold towards him, and Mummy so skittish. Mycroft felt sympathy for the boy, real sympathy, but he simultaneously knew that he could never tell Sherlock that.

His _Father, _shifting him to _Traffic? _The building for Traffic was halfway across the city, and Mycroft would be working long, dreadful hours. He'd be absolutely miserable in that, and Mycroft felt every bone in his body rebel against it.

But what was his other option, then? Leave, and let Sherlock go to that accursed boarding school?

Mycroft, then, decided to do the most irrational, irresponsible, stupid thing in his life.

He had money, saved up. There was some in the bank that he could withdraw in the morning, plus a few bits and baubles that he could sell later. He could be out by morning, if Sherlock kept up.

So, he just dashed up the stairs, flung open Sherlock's bedroom door, and announced, "Pack your things, brother. We're leaving."


End file.
